


Limits

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: ...but it is all they are going to get!!, A change in sleeping arrangements, A slight alteration in names, Agreements, All ends up well and good, Another change in sleeping arrangements, Arguments, Bill Murray is not an adequate answer..., Blow Jobs, Fear of Suicidal Behaviour, Frustrating Interruptions, Ghosts of enemies past, It is cute how Mycroft thinks he is threatening, Jealous Sherlock, John is pissed off, Lestrade deserves a sainthood!!, M/M, Mary pops in to say hello, Mary ships JohnLock, Meddling Mycroft does come in handy sometimes, Mentions Of Infidelity, Mycroft is a big teddy bear at heart, Panicking Sherlock, Parent!lock, Public Sex, Red Pants - Because I Can't Help Myself!, Smug Mary, TAB compliant, The boys finally get a clue!, and then confusedly surprised, brotherly rivalry, declarations, inappropriate use of cake, lots of letters, love and hugs and soft fuzzy fluffiness, missing John, sex of the sexy kind, the plotting of murder, twins!, unexpected expelling of bodily fluids
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-05-19 12:38:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 41,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5967688
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Basically, John leaves, without a trace, after discovering that Mary has left and the baby is not his.</p><p>Sherlock gets frantic, Mycroft gets sassy and limits are reached.</p><p>Sherlock somehow acquires a baby that he didn't expect to meet and eventually John comes home.</p><p>That is when things get tricky...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In which John can’t take any more bad news and does what no one thought he was capable of - leaves London and Sherlock behind and evades both of the Holmes brothers.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello my little lovelies and welcome to another story by me. I actually wasn’t going to write any more multi-chapter fics for a while, as I am quite busy, but apparently what I plan and what I do are two completely different things. This one just sort of happened while I was procrastinating (something I do often). So I started typing, thinking I would make it quick, but of course that didn’t happen. The words have a mind of their own, I’m sure and apparently at least one or two more chapter is in the making.
> 
> So, here it is, the first chapter of, who knows how many more of our favourite boys and the woes they find themselves in.
> 
>  
> 
> Hope you enjoy. Comments and con-crit is always appreciated. With any luck, I will get another chapter posted within a week, but even if I don’t know that I am at least thinking of getting the next chapter organised, which is sort of the same, isn’t it?  
> NTW  
> ~~~~~~~~~~  
> I am very excited because [Hamstermoon](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon) has created this wonderful piece of [cover art](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7630471) ! My first ever :D

~~~~~~~~~~

John jiggled the key in the lock once more and cursed as the bag he was holding slipped from his fingers, dropping to the ground with a dull _thunk_.  Deciding that the groceries couldn’t fall any further he left them there while he tackled with the front lock again.  It hadn’t been right for a couple of weeks, not since he had moved back in with Mary, but with everything that had gone on between then, Christmas, the tarmac, Moriarty’s return, fixing the sticking lock hadn’t been on the top of his list of priorities.  He vowed that, if the door would bloody open, he would get to it as soon as the milk was in the fridge.  Eventually he must have jiggled the key just right as the key turned and the door pushed open.  Quickly shoving the keys in his pocket he scooped up the groceries, going down the stairs to retrieve the can of beans that had tried rolling away and quickly went inside out of the icy wind.  John made his way into the kitchen and then put the groceries away as quietly as possibly, trying not to wake Mary up.  At least he assumed Mary was asleep.  It was usually the reason as to why she didn’t open the door when she heard the key jiggling in the lock.  These days she napped a lot, but it was entirely reasonable, being as she only had five weeks left of the pregnancy, and John tended to do as little to disturb her because she got crankier more often.  John had noticed it had increased in the past four days.  Since Sherlock had been called back from his brief exile.  He knew Mary was nervous, and it wasn’t just the prospect of motherhood looming closer and closer.  

Moriarty had been a threat to John in the past.  Mary was aware of all of this, and despite him being the reason that Sherlock had returned once again, (which Mary had assured him she was just as happy about as he was), he was also a threat to the secure family that they had only just begun to rebuild.

Quietly John made his way up the hallway and was surprised to see that the bedroom door was open, light from the uncovered windows pouring out of the door into the dim hallway.  Worried, John picked up his pace and quickly walked to their bedroom.  It was empty.  Three steps told him that the bathroom was also empty.  A bit further down John was concerned to find the nursery likewise without an occupant.  Pulling his phone out of his pocket he checked for any missed calls or messages.  There were none.

It was as he walked back into the lounge room that he noticed it.  A pale blue envelope sitting on the mantel against the mirror that Mary had fallen in love with at a country fair in Dunvegan.  With a shaking hand he reached out and picked up the envelope which had his name printed neatly in the centre, written in Mary’s neat script.  Not wanting to, but unable to stop himself, John opened the envelope and extracted the two neatly folded pieces of paper that were inside.  The first one was a page long letter, again in Mary’s handwriting.  As he read the letter his hand shook more and more.  He read it again before sliding it behind the second piece of paper, this one a medical report.  His eyes scanned over the page, picking out the relevant information and ignoring the rest.  Once he reached the bottom of the page his hand had stopped shaking.  

It was at that point that something inside of John finally snapped.  Any emotion he had felt left him.  All the stress that had been building up since Sherlock got shot (and to be honest, possibly before that) drained away.  He felt calm and more in control of himself than he had since getting shot and discharged from the army.  

Again he pulled his phone out of his pocket, sent off a text message and then made his way to his room while he waited for a reply, which he knew would come.  While he waited he packed a small bag, just a backpack, something he could carry while riding his bike.  In it he placed his passport, his wallet, two sets of clothes and a few basic toiletries along with his gun and ammunition.  It was as he was zipping the bag up that he received a reply to his text.  Texting back an address he walked back into the lounge room where a fire was still smouldering.  Stoking it up a bit more he threw the phone into the low flames and watched as it cracked and hissed and melted until there was nothing left but a black pile of goop, which hardened into the most un-phone looking shape as the fire died down and cooled.

John then stood up, hitched his bag onto his back and rode his bike out of the garage, turning his back on everything that he knew.  This wasn’t his life any more.  If it continued to be, it would kill him slowly, but surely.  That life would have been the depressing death of John Watson.  

For once, he was making the decisions.  It was time for him to take his own life in his own hands and fuck everyone else.  No longer would they make his decisions for him.  He didn’t need them to.  In fact, he didn’t need them at all.

Sherlock was right.  Alone was what protected people.  Alone didn’t let you down or take you for granted.  Alone was simple.  Alone was what he needed.  So, alone, John rode away, where he planned to stay for the unforeseeable future.

 


	2. In which Sherlock is impatient, has a mild panic attack and Mycroft reminds him again why he, Sherlock, is the stupid one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I must say that I am quite proud of actually getting around to writing chapter 2, and within a reasonable amount of time too. And what can I say. It still isn’t the end, as I was planning!
> 
> As usual, comments are greatly appreciated and I hope you enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock shouted into the phone, not anything discernible, but just a noise of notable frustration.

Again, John’s phone had gone straight to voicemail, as it had for the previous twenty-seven times he had called in the last twenty-three minutes.  It would have been more but he had tried Mary’s phone four times in between.  That just rang until Mary’s voice informed him that she was _unable to take the call at the moment so pleases leave a_ ……Sherlock had hung up.  He didn’t want to leave a message.  What he had wanted was for John to have answered at least one of his twelve text messages.  The first one would have been preferable rendering the following eleven unnecessary.  When that hadn’t happened he had wanted John to answer his phone, since Sherlock had actually made the effort to call instead, since texting was apparently no longer an effective form of communication.

But still, that had remained ineffective as John was still not answering.  Sherlock frowned as he paced back and forth.  Mary still had five weeks to go in her pregnancy, not that that meant anything.  A first time mother of Mary’s age of 39 (if that was even her real age) was ten percent more likely to have a premature birth and three times more likely to need a caesarean. There was also a 1 in 440 chance that the child would be stillborn, but he didn’t dwell on that fact.  Anyway, John would have let him know if Mary had gone into labour.  It wasn’t something that he and John had discussed as John and Mary had spent most of the pregnancy not talking to each other, but Sherlock had kept in contact and up to date on all of her progress and milestones.  (The fact that they hadn’t filled him in on the sex of the baby _when_ they had found out was still a bit of a sore point, but Sherlock had other things to worry about - like making John answer his phone!) - He had even gone to anti-natal classes…well, class.  Mary had banned him from any other classes after he kept interrupting the class with his own corrections and making the poor nurse, teaching the class cry.  She had taken Janine to the remainder of the classes.

Sherlock sent off another message, this time to his brother.

**Neither John nor Mary are answering their phones.  Where are they?  SH**

It wasn’t long before the reply came through.

**Did it ever occur to you that they are trying to enjoy some time alone before there is a constant distraction in their lives.  MH**

Sherlock scowled down at the phone.

**What could possibly be more constantly distracting than myself?  Something is not right.  Find them.  SH**

**Truer words have never been spoken, brother mine MH**

Sherlock paced and sent two more texts to John and one to Mary in the time that it took for Mycroft to get back to him.  

“Mycroft” he greeted shortly.

“It appears there has been movement in the Watson household.  Nothing too suspect on the outside, but it most certainly does not appear usual behaviour for your good doctor and his wife.”

“Nobody is appreciating the sound of your voice, Mycroft.  Get on with it.”

Mycroft continued as if Sherlock hadn’t even spoken.

“At 10:43 this morning it appears John left the flat, taking the car to the local supermarket.  Twenty-one minutes later Mary leaves the house with a rather large shoulder bag.  Seventeen minutes later John returns with the shopping.  It appears their front door is in need of some maintenance….”

“Mycroft…”

“Three hours later John removes his bike from the garage and rides off and we lose him in Friern Barnet.  Mary’s whereabouts are also unknown at this time.”

“Lose him?” What do you mean, _lose him_?  They are on a high security detail, Mycroft.  They were supposed to be protected.  How have you lost them?”

“We are looking into it now, Sherlock.  We have only been at it for not quite fifteen minutes.”

“Find them Mycroft” Sherlock barked down the phone and then hung up, heading for the door and grabbing his coat on the way out.  

There was a reason Mary and John left their house, evading all of Mycrofts agents, and Sherlock was going to find out what it was.

~o~

Mycroft was right.  The front door on John and Mary’s house did need some work.  Eventually, Sherlock got the spare key John had given him to turn and pushed his way inside.  He didn’t need to call out.  There was no one home.  But there was an odd smell in the flat, almost like…burnt plastic.  It was not strong, but it was definitely there.  Sherlock automatically headed to the lounge room where the fireplace had gone cold, but there was an unmistakable lump of distorted, charred plastic on the bottom, almost covered by the ashes.

Sherlock took out his phone and rang John’s phone.  Voice mail.  He hung up and then called Mary’s phone.  In the distance he heard the chiming of Beethoven’s Fur Elise, coming from the direction of the bedroom.  He turned and headed towards the doorway, only to stop as the sound of crunching paper sounded from under his foot.  He looked down to see two sheets of paper under his shoe.  Not far from his foot was a blue envelope with John’s name scrawled on the front in Mary’s hand.  Ignoring the envelope he bent down and removed the sheets of paper from under his shoe. 

The first one was a letter from Mary.  It read:

 

_John,_

_I truly apologise for all that I have put you through and for what I am about to tell you.  I honestly did love you.  I still do, but we both know that the lie we are living can only go so far before we start to resent each other and I fear that that resent will happen sooner than later._

_After you decided to take me back at Christmas time I decided that I couldn’t tell you anymore lies or half truths so I had a test done to confirm something that I had expected for sometime now.  Please, please, believe me when I tell you that I am truly sorry and that I never, ever meant to hurt you.  It was just once, a month before our wedding.  It doesn’t matter who it was but know that I regret it every second of every day._

_The results on the next sheet of paper will tell you everything you need to know.  Everything I was too cowardly to write down, let alone tell you to your face._

_I wish things had been differently between us.  I wish I had been honest from the beginning and was a stronger person, but I wasn’t and I am not.  I am not good enough for a man such as yourself.  If I am to stay I will only turn you into a twisted, bitter, resentful man and you, John Watson, are too good for that._

_So, I leave now knowing that the last time that I saw you, you loved me and you were happy._

_Please, stay happy John, despite what I have done to you.  You deserve it more than anyone I have ever known._

_I love you, and I am sorry,_

_Mary._

 

Automatically Sherlock lifted the second sheet of paper up to his level of sight, already knowing what it was going to say.  Knowing what it said didn’t stop the shock of actually reading it.  Sherlock felt something akin to a giant fist crushing his heart as he read the report.

_The alleged father, John Hamish Watson, is excluded as the biological father of the tested child.  This conclusion is based on the non-matching alleles observed at the loci listed above with a PI equal to 0.  The alleged father lacks the genetic markers that must be contributed to the child by the biological father.  The probability  of paternity is 0%._

John was not the father of Mary’s baby.

Suddenly Sherlock was angry.  All of the times he had met up with Mary, to assure her that John would come around, to get details on the pregnancy so he could report back to John the progress of his growing child.  He too had, surprisingly, found himself looking forward to the birth of baby Watson.  It was the one thing that had kept John above water after he had found himself adrift, his life torn apart by one lie after another.  Now that bit of hope had been ripped away from him by yet another lie and he was gone.

As quick as the anger had come it left Sherlock only to be replaced by raw panic.  Since that bullet had torn through John’s shoulder he had been dealt blow after blow after blow.  He continued to have things he held dear to him ripped away and each time he forgave and continued on, always the solider, not letting anything stop him for too long.  This was surely the final blow.  

Mycrofts phone was ringing before Sherlock realised he had even pulled his phone out of his pocket.

‘Sherlock” his brother greeted impatiently.  “I will inform you as soon as we….”  
“You need to find him.  Soon” Sherlock all but pleaded.  “The baby.  It’s not his.”

~o~

Sherlock was pacing again.  Different lounge room, same action.  Five steps, turn, five steps, turn, over and over again.

“Sit down Sherlock.  John will not appreciate the hole you are going to wear into his carpet.”

Sherlock glared at his brother, who had just entered the lounge room and sat in one of the overstuffed arm chairs.  Sherlock took some satisfaction in the unpleasant look that crossed his brothers face as he tried, and failed, to sit with his usual arrogant air, amongst too much stuffing, but then scowled again as he realised that he had followed Mycrofts orders and sat on the chair adjacent to his brother.

“You have looked through John’s belongings, yes?” Mycroft asked, knowing damn well that while waiting for his brother to arrive Sherlock had combed the flat looking for anything that may give away Mary or John’s whereabouts.

“Of course I did, Mycroft.  I’m not an idiot.  How is this helping us find John?”

“What did you discover upon observing the scene of the crime?”  Sherlock wanted to roll his eyes at his brothers over-dramatisation but he was too busy glaring.

“Nothing of use, now if you have something useful, tell me otherwise leave, so I can continue looking for John before he becomes another statistic for depressed middle aged men in London.”

Mycroft sighed.  “Sentimentality has slowed you dear brother.  When John left this afternoon he took with him a backpack.  Not unusual since he has started riding to work, but we both know he didn’t go to work, so what was in the bag?”

“How would I know.  Until you just mentioned it I wasn’t even made aware that he had a backpack with him.”

“Think, Sherlock.  What is missing from the flat?”

“His gun, Mycroft, what does that tell you?”

“That you’re still not the smart one.”

Sherlock bit back the growl that threatened to leave his mouth at that taunting sing-song voice.  He had hated it when they were children and he hated it now.

Mycroft sighed again.  “Clothing has recently been removed from the drawers, plus his toothbrush is missing.  Add that to the fact that Mary’s passport is in the desk drawer, but his isn’t tells me that John has gone somewhere to get away for a while, not to end his life.  Give him time and he will return.  In the mean time, I will track him down and keep an eye in him, but I must implore you Sherlock, let him be.  Don’t push him on this.  It is obvious that he needs time to himself for a while.”

“How long?” Sherlock asked.  He was on unfamiliar territory here.  Usually it was John trying to calm Sherlock down and fix things after one of his strops.   How long did it normally take for someone to bounce back from something like this?  How would Sherlock know that enough time had turned into too much time?  There was no exact measurement for this sort of thing.  This was not his area.  It was Johns.

Sherlock looked to Mycroft, needing him to say something encouraging.  Something useful.  Instead he was met with a pitying glance that he hadn’t seen on his brothers face since they told him that Red Beard had been put down.

“I honestly can’t answer that, Sherlock” was all Mycroft said before standing up and leaving the Watson’s house.

Sherlock wandered around the house once more, taking everything in, looking for something.

Mycroft had told him to stay away, and he might be right, but what if he wasn’t.  His feet stopped as he stood in the threshold of the nursery.  Pastel everything stared back at him.  The rug, the curtains, the lamp, the sea animal mobile over the cot, the bedding.  Even the furniture was in a pale shade of cream, rather than the rich wood or glaring white that had been popular in the shops.  Sherlock glared at the lot.  He had helped Mary pick a lot of this out, since John was keeping himself over-busy with work at the clinic and decidedly not talking to Mary, despite Sherlock’s arguments that he was, as usual, overreacting.  He had argued with Mary on how practically useless most of her purchases were and that with stimulation, such as what was on offer, the child would surely be as dull witted and boring as all the other children currently getting ready to grow and ruin the planet, and she had agreed with him and then proceeded to buy it with that all knowing cheeky glint in her eye. 

Now, he wanted to smash the lot up into lots of little pieces.  Not because she had lied to him and fooled him, once again,  This wasn’t about his pride. His pride would heal over time.  It always did.  No.  This was about what it had done, what it would do, to John.  The second that Sherlock had told them that Mary was pregnant Sherlock had seen the light in Johns eye’s, shining already impossibly bright that day, shine even brighter.  This was something that he had always wanted.  Something that would always be his.  Something that no one could take away from him.  But they did.  In one handwritten note and one doctors report, the last _honest_ thing that John had, had been ripped away from him.  And he had been alone when it had happened.

Sherlock stepped into the room and looked around.  A flash of bright yellow caught his eye in between the bars of the cot, standing out amongst the softened hues of everything else.  In two strides he was standing over the cot.  In the centre lay a stuffed yellow and black bumble bee.  Sherlock picked it up and turned it over in his hands.  He had given this to John, for the baby, a week before he had moved out of Baker Street for the last time.  He told him that it could be stuffed on a shelf with the dozen or so other stuffed animals that Mary had bought for the baby.  But it hadn’t been.  It had been put in the cot, as if holding a certain place of honour, above all the other plushies that lined shelves or sat in corners on cupboards.  Sherlock picked it up and gave it a small squeeze.  A soft buzzing noise emitted from the toys stomach as small vibrations rolled through the palm of his hand as the bee shook gently.  

Sherlock didn’t know why, but he suddenly didn’t want to leave this with all of the other things.  This had been specifically purchased with baby Watson in mind, not some other mans child.  With the bee in his hand Sherlock turned and left the room, left the house and left the notion of Mary and the baby.  He would take Mycrofts advice and let John get over this in his own way, but he still needed to know where he was.   He needed to find John Watson.

 


	3. In which Mrs Hudson gets an unexpected surprise, Sherlock gets a rather rude wake-up call, John is still nowhere to be seen and Mary lied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here it is, Chapter 3, the next instalment to manifest in this story. I never thought I would delve into parent!lock, but here it is, and I have decided that there is at least another three chapters to come.
> 
> As usual, comments and con-crit are always welcomed…loved and cherished even and I hope you all enjoy.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Sherlock”

Sherlock batted away the hand that was shaking his shoulder and pulled the duvet up over his head again.  This was the first night he had slept in almost a week.

“Sherlock.”  The hand continued to shake him, just over the duvet instead.

“Go away” he mumbled into the pillow under his face.

She didn’t.  She continued to alternate between shaking his shoulder and trying to tug the duvet from his unrelenting grip.

“Sherlock Holmes, you will get up this instant” she finally snapped and Sherlock pushed the quilt off of his head and sat up, glaring at his landlady.

“Mrs Hudson, what exactly do you….”

Sherlock stopped as an unusual and extremely unexpected noise drifted down from the front room.

“Mrs Hudson, would you care to….”

He was again cut off from the soft wailing drifting down the hallway.

He blinked.  And then again.  Then there was the noise again, but this time it didn’t stop.  It kept going and going, rising in volume, a breathy hitch interspersing the wails every now and then.

“What is that?” Sherlock demanded and Mrs Hudson glared down at him.  Sherlock almost wanted to shrink away form her.  Someone that short and sweet should not look so formidable.

“That, Sherlock, is why I was trying to wake you up” and with that she took off down the hallway towards the crying…thing, that appeared to be waiting for him in the living room.

Sherlock looked to the clock.  6:17am.  No-one should be out of bed at this hour unless someone was dead and judging by the racket coming down the hall the subject of this rather early and very rude wake-up call was most definitely _not_ dead!  Cringing as his feet his the icy cold floorboards Sherlock left the warm confines of his bed and followed Mrs Hudson into the living area to be greeted by the oddest sight.  There she was, nursing and rocking a small bundle of large wailing cries and tiny waving arms.

“I think she’s hungry” she said looking to Sherlock.  

Sherlock felt a temporary panic take over before stepping back.  “Don’t look at me.  I can strongly assure you that I am not equipped for such a task.  Where is its mother?” he asked with an air of annoyance.

Mrs Hudson shrugged as she gently bounced the white swathed bundle up and down.  “I was just having a cup of tea when my doorbell started ringing.  Over and over again it rang, so, I hurried to the door and when I opened it there was no one there, just….” and her head nodded towards the basket that Sherlock hadn’t noticed was on the couch.  Next to it was a back bag covered in dozens of cartoon bumble bees.  If Sherlock hadn’t been so thrown by the entire incident he would have found the bag amusing.  As it was, he didn’t get much time to consider such things as the baby started squawking even louder.  

“Here” Mrs Hudson said thrusting the baby into Sherlock’s arms.  “Support her head” she instructed, manoeuvring Sherlocks arms to accommodate the tiny form that was being forced upon him.

“Mrs Hudson, I really…” Sherlock started to protest, but she wasn’t listening.

“I need to make her a bottle, assuming that there are supplies in that bag” she said grabbing the bag off of the couch and heading into the kitchen.  Sherlock went to follow, with all intentions of handing the infant right back but his feet wouldn’t move.  His brain suddenly flooded with images of him tripping or dropping the baby and it seemed he had turned to cement, unable to do anything. 

“Perhaps we should call Lestrade?”  he called over his shoulder, trying not to sound as distressed as he felt.

“Doesn’t he handle homicide” Mrs Hudson called back, followed by “Oh, good.  There is a bottle already made up.  Just let me warm it up.”

“Missing persons often lead to homicide, he’d just be getting in early” Sherlock said as the baby let out a particularly loud wail and he turned his head so he was no longer looking over his shoulder at Mrs Hudson, and turned all of his attention to the baby instead.  It looked familiar.  Why a baby would look familiar was beyond him, but it did.  

The crying got louder and louder.  It was probably a bit not good to smother its mouth with his hand so instead, for some reason unknown to him, he stuck the tip of his index finger in the baby’s mouth and something not too short of a miracle happened.  The baby’s small lips clamped around his finger and it stopped crying, and started sucking on the digit.  Quite fiercely one might add.  It was then that Sherlock got a good look at it, without its face being all scrunched up, and once he had a good look, there was no denying who’s this baby was.  

The tuft of dark brown hair, (Mary’s natural colour) the shape of the face and the slightly pointed earlobes were Mary Morstan/Watson all over.  But the shade of blue of the eyes the shape of the nose and the round of the chin, the scowl at not being fed on time.  That was someone completely different.  

Sherlock Holmes was, without a doubt, looking into the face of the daughter of John Watson.

“Oh, Mary” Sherlock whispered down at the baby in his arms who was desperately trying to get some form of nourishment out of the tip of his finger.  “What have you done?”

~o~

Sherlock held in his hand the second letter in under three months from Mary.  This one though, had been addressed to him.

Mrs Hudson had come into the living room with a warmed bottle in one hand and the letter in the other.  Both had been found in the bee bag that had been left with the baby.  He had made a trade.  Mrs Hudson took over the feeding of the child and he retreated to his room to read the letter in private.

 

_Sherlock,_

 

_As you have probably figured out I lied, once again, to our John.  What you probably haven’t figured out is why?_

_John told me that he never read the memory stick that I gave him, and I believe him, but I have a pretty good idea that that you read it.  You can’t let a mystery go.  You need to know the answers, and I don’t blame you one little bit.  It’s who you are.  It is why we love you._

_So, knowing that you read the information that I gave John you know who I worked for and who I worked against.  You also know that, even with Magnussen gone (thank you for that once again) I was never going to be completely safe.  There was always going to be people after me, and I could have lived with that because most of them were small-time crooks.  But then the big-time crook returned.  Well, not him as such - but his_ _predecessor._

 _When '_ James Moriarty _' came back, I knew I was no longer safe.  Once upon a time I used to do what you had left John for.  I worked against Jim, only I went so far as to infiltrate his network and ‘worked’ for him.  I was found out not long before he decided to break into the Tower of London.  I honestly believe that he hated me more than he hated you.  That’s not an easy feat to achieve.  When he killed himself I decided that he was no longer a threat.  I told those I worked for that I quit.  I no longer wanted that life.  Someone else could tie up the loose ends.  Little did I know that it was you doing that job.  I honestly believed you had died that day too._

_Yes, I knew about you and John before I met John.  Of course I did.  And of course I fell in love.  It was no accident that we were both employed at the same clinic, but you already knew that, didn’t you._

_The problem with someone taking Jim's place is that he will know who I am, just as he obviously knows who you and John are.  There was no way that I could keep on hiding from him and there was no way that the baby would have been spared in all of this._

_I had a paternity test done, using a friend of mine that would have no similar DNA to John what so ever.  ID was easy to falsify and a test was done which I knew the results would be 0% match up.  I did this to keep the baby safe.  It is bad enough that I am her mother, there is nothing that I can do about that.  But John added a double threat, and there was something that I could do about that.  I know it broke his heart to read that letter and the test results when I left him.  There was a reason I couldn’t do it face to face and that reason was that I would not have been able to carry through with it all, but it needed to be done.  The baby had to be kept safe at all costs, which is why I also had to leave._

_Four weeks later, on the 8th of February all medical records will say that I gave birth to Melanie Elizabeth Morstan, stillborn._

_Again, it is easy to falsify reports when you know certain people._

_In actual fact I gave birth to Gabriella Watson-Holmes, whom I believe you have already met, and was probably crying for more food.  (She is much like her father in that retrospect…she has a very healthy appetite.)_

_There is a birth certificate and a copy of all of her medical and immunisation files in the bottom of the bag._

_Congratulations.  You’re a father.  (I bet that’s not something you were ever expecting to hear.)_

_You are probably wondering why I have left her in your care?  Well, the answer to that is simple.  She was always going to be left in the care of you and John, ever since I saw Moriarty’s face on that screen back at the tarmac.  Once his threat returned I knew that motherhood was not something I was ever meant to experience.  And although the life you and John lead is far from safe, mine is infinitely worse.  It is no place for a child to be and there was no one else that I trusted to raise her.  I know you Sherlock.  You are fiercely loyal and will do all that you can, and more, to protect those you love.  It is one of the many ways you and John are alike, and while I finish the job that I started, you can keep Gabriella safe.  Between the two of you, Mycroft and my contacts there will be no better protected child in the UK.  Hell, the world even._

_Tell Mycroft that should I come across anything he will find useful, I have his contact details, but he is to leave me alone.  If he continues to track me he risks blowing my cover and that cannot happen.  There is already a high chance that I will not survive this.  His co-operation on this matter would be greatly appreciated._

_And finally, you are probably wondering why all of this was sent to you, and not John.  The truth is, in the first few weeks, I never really left. Even when I did, it wasn’t far. I have been close by all this time.  I know John walked out the day I left, and I know you have been frantically trying to find him since.  Let me give you some advice.  Don’t.  He is safe.  He is working through his grief in his own way.  I would like to say that he is happy, but I have given up on lying to those I hold close, but he is coping.  I get a weekly report on where he is and what he is doing and trust me when I tell you that he will return to you._

_You know him.  He couldn’t leave London after the army, when it almost left him homeless, with no job and no friends.  He can’t stay away from the place._

_And then there is you.  When you were alive he couldn’t stay away.  You took precedence over everything.  Friends, life, love, work.  When you were dead it was also about you.  His campaign to clear your name and the regular visits to the cemetery.  He even spoke your name once or twice in his sleep.  Then when you returned it was a case of accept you or lose John because there was no way in hell that he was going to give you up again.  Not that I minded.  I liked you._

_So, trust me when I say that within 3 or 4 Months, John will be knocking on your door again.  He can’t help it.  It’s who he is._

_I know I have asked a lot of you, taking on the parenting of our daughter (which you will be fine at by the way, stop panicking) but I need to ask of you one more thing._

_When John comes back don’t beat around the bush any longer.  You both deserve better than that.  Now, I know you are reading this sentence, wondering what the hell I am on about.  But deep down, you know exactly what I am talking about._

_Tell John how you feel about him.  He feels the same.  But you were too emotionally stunted to act on it, John was too loyal to me and you are both ridiculously stubborn._

_John loved me, I know that he did, but even I could see that it never held a candle for what he felt, feels, for you.  And that never bothered me.  It should have, but it didn’t because had I not lied from the start we still would have been happy together.  But I am not there anymore, but you will be._

_Tell him how you feel.  It will all work out, I promise, and if that isn’t enough to get you to take some action over what is glaringly obvious to anyone that spends more than 30 seconds in  a room with you two together, then I shall use guilt._

_Gabriella is going to need a strong, loving, honest family unit in order to survive this world.  If she can’t get that from the two men who are raising her, then where is she going to get it?_

_Think on it at least._

_So, once again, thank you Sherlock for everything you have done for our family and everything you will continue to do to keep them safe and loved.  Please tell John that I am sorry and that I love him, and let my daughter know that her mother loved her very much as well.  Tell her the good stories about me._

_Forever,_

 

_Mary._

 

Sherlock refolded the letter  and placed it in his sock drawer before going back out to the living room where Mrs Hudson had finished feeding the baby…Gabriella, and now had her against her shoulder, patting her back.

“What is it Sherlock?” She asked with a concerned voice.

Sherlock walked over and took the baby from Mrs Hudson’s arms and held her up, his fingers supporting the back of her head, so she was level with his face.

“Welcome to Baker Street, Gabriella Watson-Holmes” He said with something between a frown and a smile.  

The baby gave what appeared to be a small smile back and then opened her little mouth and vomited over the front over Sherlock’s pyjamas.

 


	4. In which John is still missing without a trace, Sherlock discovers just how disgusting babies are, mothers are called, brothers meddle, and landladies are angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is one more chapter, just for you - My Lovely Readers!  
> I hope you enjoy, and as always comments and con-crit and any ideas are always welcome!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock soon came to realise several things in the first 24 hours of having a new tenant at 221 B Baker Street.

Babies were noisy.  Frequently.

They had no concept of time and were impatient.

They took forever to go to sleep and they woke up with the slightest noise.  They also startled easily, which caused them to cry.  Loudly.

Babies smelt.

The first time Sherlock had experienced this particular problem was not even half an hour after his new guest had thrown up on him.  Mrs Hudson had run down to the shop to get some supplies.  Not even ten minutes later the child started to stink.  And not just a bit.  Sherlock had put her back in her basket and walked away but the smell was strong, so he went to the kitchen.  Unfortunately Gabriella didn’t appreciate being left alone so she started sobbing, then crying, then wailing.  

Sherlock decided that the smell was more bearable than the noise so he went back in and picked Gabriella back up.  Instantly she shut up.  But the smell was worse.  

Sherlock may not be an expert on babies (he had deleted everything he had learnt once he found out that the baby wasn’t meant to be John’s) but he knew what it was.  The baby had defecated in her nappy.  He contemplated leaving it until Mrs Hudson came back, but she was seventy odd years old and had a hip.  There was no way she was doing a ‘run through’ at Tesco.

Deciding to be the responsible adult (not something he had ever applied to himself before) Sherlock decided that he would just change it.  After all, she was only 22 inches long and no more than 9 pounds.  How bad could the mess be.

He was still regretting that thought fifteen minutes later as he held the crying baby under the running shower, trying not to spray himself at the same time, watching as the water going down the drain went from a yellowy-brown colour to clear.  He had to tighten his grip on the baby as apparently wet babies were slippery babies.  He eventually deemed that she was clean enough and turned the shower off, just as Mrs Hudson came back into the flat.

“Sherlock?” she called. 

“In here” he called back, holding Gabriella up with both hands while he looked around for something to dry her with.  There were no clean towels on account that no washing had been done in over three weeks.

Just then Mrs Hudson walked into the bathroom. “What…”

“There was a mess.   A lot of it.  I think she needs to be seen to.  Something so small shouldn’t be able to expel so much waste.”

Suddenly Mrs Hudson started to chuckle.  “Oh, Sherlock.  That’s normal.”  She reached out and took the baby from the completely oblivious man and walked out with her.  Picking an old towel up off the floor Sherlock dried off his arms and face where the water had splashed back and then suddenly dropped the towel when he heard Mrs Hudson rummaging around in _his_ wardrobe.

Before he could get in to his room to find out what she was doing she came back wrapping the baby up in his camel coloured dressing gown. 

“No” Sherlock said, going to grab the baby and pluck her out from within the folds of the soft material, but Mrs Hudson brushed past him and continued into the living room.  “Mrs Hudson, that dressing gown is worth more…”

He stopped at the glare that she threw at him.  “But it’s got no pants on.  I have witnessed what is able to come out of that small body.  The fabric will never survive it.”

Mrs Hudson continued to glare as she sat down on Sherlocks chair.  “Then I suggest you hurry up and find _her_ some clothes.”

Apparently dressing a baby was not as easy as one would think either.  They wriggled and didn’t bend quite right, but seeing as Mrs Hudson refused to do it and he worried for the integrity of his dressing gown, he had no choice but to clothe the small child himself.  

To Sherlocks pleasant surprise, the 'shower' and the effort of dressing seemed to have worn Gabriella out as she was now yawning.  Sherlock picked her up from the floor, where Mrs Hudson had advised he lay her as, ‘ _she couldn’t fall any further_ ’, and put her in the basket, covering her with the blanket that had been provided.  She didn’t like it.  She cried…again.

“You may need to rock her to sleep” Mrs Hudson suggested.  “She is in an unusual place with people she is not familiar with.”

Cautiously Sherlock picked Gabriella back up and she stopped crying instantly.  He tried to position her as Mrs Hudson had placed her in his arms earlier that day, but she wouldn’t sit right.  Everything felt awkward.

With a sigh Mrs Hudson came to the rescue once again and positioned Gabriella so she was tucked in close to his chest and secure in his ams.  “You need to relax, Sherlock” she said quietly, so as not to startle the baby, then taking his elbows gently she started rocking his arms left to right, slowly.  Once Sherlock had the rhythm she let go and within minutes Gabriella was fast asleep, her small fist jammed in her mouth.  

~o~

The rest of the day fell into an unsteady cycle of Gabriella waking, crying, eating, vomiting, needing a nappy change and then sleeping again.  Mrs Hudson gave Sherlock a crash course in how to make up bottles and how to change nappies and then she left, taking his washing with him, only to return it, clean, dry and folded several hours later.  

Sherlock had learnt the hard way to place the basket, where the baby slept, in his room as later that afternoon, after she had finally gone to sleep, after fourty-five minutes of solid rocking, she had woken up fifteen minutes later when Sherlock knocked over a stack of books that were teetering on the side table next to the front door.  It had taken another twenty minutes to get her back to sleep.

Later that night, after her 2am feed, he dug through the boxes under his bed until he found what he was looking for.  There it was.  The little bee that he had taken from the Watson’s house ten and a half weeks ago.

As Gabriella settled down into a deeper sleep his squeezed the bees belly and straight away it started buzzing and gently shaking.  He placed it next to her hip and she let out a small sigh, but showed no further signs of waking, so he left the room, leaving the door open just a crack so he could hear if she woke again.

During down time Sherlock re-read all of the information he had deleted on infants and spent hours trawling through online baby shops, picking out furniture and other things for the baby, courtesy of Mycrofts credit card.  

Tomorrow he would call on some of the more desirable members of his homeless network to clean out the top room and convert it into a nursery for Gabriella.  It was either that or she stay sleeping in Sherlocks room, which was not an option.  At all.  Ever.  Granted it meant that if… when John came back they would have to reorganise sleeping arrangements again, but that was a bridge to cross once they came to it.  He was not having Gabriella get used to his room.  It was bad enough that she was there now, making it smell all…baby-like.

~o~

It was half way through the second day of renovating the nursery, with two men moving nursery furniture up to the room while two teenagers painted the walls white, decorating them with an array of flowers flowers and butterflies and whatnot, when Mycroft could no longer stay away from the commotion at 221 B Baker Street.

“Ah, Mycroft, perfect timing” Sherlock said as his brother casually strolled into the living room, and placed Gabriella into his arms and walked away.  Mycrofts umbrella dropped to the floor as he scrabbled not to drop the baby.  

“Sherlock, would you mind telling me what is going on” he sighed, looking down at the bundle in his arms but Sherlock wasn’t listening.  He had gone out to the landing and was directing two men where exactly to put the change table that had just arrived.

He then followed them upstairs, only to return a few moments later with an extremely pleased look on his face.  Mycroft held his hands out to Sherlock, offering the baby as he passed, but Sherlock bypassed him, ignoring the proffered baby and went straight for his chair.

“Sherlock” Mycroft said, still holding out the baby.  “I now understand why several thousand pounds worth of nursery equipment have been charged to my credit card.  Would you now like to explain why you are in possession of a baby that bears a striking resemblance to John Watson?”

“Because it is John Watson’s baby” Sherlock replied simply.

Mycroft cocked an eyebrow and the baby let out a little squeal followed by a bubbling gurgle that resulted in a string of drawl running down her chin and landing on the floor with a little _plop_ barely missing the tip of Mycrofts shoe.  Mycroft looked from the saliva by his foot then up to Sherlock with a mildly horrified expression on his face.  Sherlock beamed back at him.  

“Isn’t she wonderful” he exclaimed.

Mycroft ignored him.  “And is there a reason that she is not in the care of her mother?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft and studied him.  “You can’t tell me that I have had a baby in my flat for three days now and you have only just decided to interfere” he said, completely ignoring Mycrofts line of questioning.

“I was giving you a chance to settle in.”

“You thought I’d crack and beg for your help.”

“I do have a job, you know.  As minor as it is, it is still important.  I can’t be running around after you all the time.”

“You were waiting for me to crumble and then decided that you couldn’t hold out any longer. You are too nosey to sit back and wait.”

Mycroft was no longer looking at Sherlock.  He was looking down at the baby, who was being held up under her arms, with a concerned frown on his face.

“Sherlock.  It’s got a funny look on its face.”

“Oh, never mind that, she’s just had a feed.”

“Sherlock, I may not be an expert, but isn’t a feed normally proceeded by…”

Mycroft was cut short by a stream of baby vomit, all curdled milk like, projectiling out and hitting the left hand side of his brown, pinstriped jacket.

Sherlock stood up and clapped his hands in glee.  “I told you she was wonderful” and he finally took the child back from Mycroft and, picking a small cloth from the back of John’s chair, wiped her mouth and then patted down Mycrofts jacket, smiling up at the glare his older brother was throwing him.

“You planned that.”

“Mycroft, I am a busy person you know, even if it is just with a baby. I can’t be running around trying to piss you off all the time.”

Mycroft snatched the cloth out of Sherlocks hand and took over the wiping of his jacket, using a bit more force than was strictly necessary before bending over to pick up his umbrella. 

With his free hand Sherlock reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the envelope that held his letter from Mary.  Mycroft took it from his outstretched fingers and proceeded to read it as Sherlock sat in his chair and laid Gabriella along his lap, wriggling his fingers above her face and watching her try to clumsily grab for them.

“Is there any reason to suspect that this is all lies?” Mycroft asked tucking the letter back into the envelope and dropping it onto the coffee table before sitting in the chair across from Sherlock.

“Not than I can see, and it does match up with the information that was on the memory stick.”

“Is there anyway of contacting her?”

“None at all.”

“And John?”

“Still knows nothing, but she believes that John will be back.”

“Yes, in three to four months.  I must say, I am inclined to believe her.  I would like to know how she is tracking him though.”

“Leave her Mycroft, you read what she wrote.  She needs to be left alone.  Leave her and she will help you where she can.”

Mycroft just levelled a calculated stare at his brother for a few brief moments.  

“And you are giving up your search for John?”

This time it was Sherlocks turn to stay silent.  He had been throwing that thought around in his head since he read Mary’s note.  His natural instinct told him to keep looking, that John needed protection.  Sherlock needed to know where John was.  But what Mary, and admittedly Mycroft, had said made sense.  He would come back on his own.  If he left John he could go back to solving the Moriarty problem again, something that he had put off for the past eleven weeks, ever since John had disappeared.  And also, there was Gabriella, who seemed to take up a lot of time for something so small.

“I have other things to focus on” he finally replied.

“And when he does return?”

“He will take over as Gabriella’s primary carer, as is his right, and I will focus on Moriarty again.”  
“And where will he sleep, that is of course, should he even want to move back to Baker Street?”

Sherlock hated that condescending look his brother got when he thought he knew something Sherlock didn’t, but in truth, Sherlock had avoided that question and Mary’s request, the one he knew Mycroft had just read, pinged around in his head.  And then there was the second part of Mycrofts query.  Sherlock hadn’t even entertained the idea that John wouldn’t move back now that Mary was no longer in the picture.  The thought left a heavy feeling in his gut.

Sherlock dropped his attention from his brother to the small person on his lap who had caught his finger while he wasn’t paying attention and was now gumming the tip of his thumb.

When it was clear that no answer was coming forth Mycroft changed the subject.  “Is Mummy aware that she now has a granddaughter?”

Sherlocks head snapped up.  “Don’t you dare.”

“I promise Sherlock, I will not go out of my way to alert our parents to this fact, but I am sure she will want to know exactly why I am in need of the best method of cleaning infant vomit out of wool.” And with that he stood up and made to leave.

“Mycroft, you get your suits dry cleaned” Sherlock hissed, standing up a bit too abruptly, startling Gabriella as he brought her up to his shoulder.

“Yes I do, don’t I” his brother smiled as he made for the door, umbrella cheerily swinging from side to side.  “You shouldn’t be afraid to show her off Sherlock.  She really is _wonderful_ after all.”

Sherlock went to take after his brother but Gabriella started wailing again, stopping him in his tracks.  By the time he had calmed her down Mycroft was long gone.

~o~

Sherlock expected the call within the next forty-eight hours.  What he didn’t expect was for that afternoon his parents to be standing in his living room with arms full of gifts for Gabriella.

Sherlock vowed that Mycroft would cop a lot more than a little up-chuck the next time he came around.

His mother clucked and cooed over Gabriella and she and Mrs Hudson went through all seven bags of whatever it was his mother had purchased for the baby, packing them away in the cupboards that had arrived and been assembled earlier that day.  The nursery was set up but both his Mother and Mrs Hudson had forbid him to let Gabriella sleep in there until the paint fumes had gone.

His father sat, almost silently, asking the odd question every now and then.  Mainly about the work and if he had heard form John.  Sherlock kept the answers short.  

He and his father had a good relationship.  They were comfortable with the silence around them and didn’t have to say much in order to communicate.  Unlike his Mother and Mycroft who never shut up.

Once the fussing had been done and the baby had done the rounds his mother put Gabriella to bed, in Sherlock’s room and then finally decided to leave.  

“You could come out to dinner with us, after she wakes up” his mother suggested as he was not so subtly ushering them out the door.

“No.”

“Alright then, dear.  Would you like us to drop by again before we leave tomorrow morning.”

“Really, no.  Not at all necessary.”

“Okay then, you call if you need anything” and his mother gently patted his cheek.  He stepped back before she could kiss the other one.

“Goodnight Mother, Father” and he shut the door before she could make any more offers.

With a sigh Sherlock dropped down onto his arm chair and just appreciated the silence.  After so long of nothing happening in the flat, with him being consumed with finding John, the past few days had come as a sort of shock.  Everything was go, go, go and he realised that he hadn’t even thought about the fish aortas that had now been sitting in the fridge for four days.

He closed his eyes to think things through.  He no longer ran on his schedule, the past couple of days proved that, so some serious reshuffling needed to be done.  But first he wanted to just enjoy the quiet.  Only for a few minutes, before he started to re-plan his life that that still would, for the time being, not involve John Watson.

 


	5. In which DI’s see the funny side, there is a dead body, Sherlock sees a potential problem with being the sole carer of a small person and makes a decision and all the while John is still AWOL.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, Chapter 5 and it is quite short as it is actually part of one chapter split into two.   
> A big thanks and squishy hugs to everyone who has been following and supporting this fic and as usual kudos, comments and the like are all warmly welcome!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock jolted awake, temporarily confused to his surroundings as his phone vibrations tittered through the left side of his body.  With a few slow and hard blinks of his eyes he realised that he was laying on the couch, in his living room and that he must have fallen asleep while running over the possible chemical compounds that were found in the Malaysian takeaway he had ordered, purely for experimental reasons, the previous night.  He had heard stories that the food was clearly not fit for human consumption and had decided to test it out himself for the simple fact that, despite having Gabriella around, he was bored.

The phone rang one more time before he realised that he needed to answer it and he dug down the side of the couch, where it had obviously fallen and pulled it out.

A look of glee crossed his face as he saw who was calling and quickly answered the phone.

“Lestrade” he greeted, sounding as nonchalant as ever, the joyful look of a possible case completely dropping away from his face lest it somehow be conveyed over the phone.

“Look, I know you have had a lot on your plate lately” the DI started and Sherlock rolled his eyes.  Why couldn’t people just get straight to the point. “But we have got a bit of a doozy down here at the morgue.”

“Why are you only calling me now?” Sherlock growled.  “It would have been more beneficial for me to see it at the actual crime scene.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the phone before Lestrade spoke again, sounding a bit wary, although to Sherlock this was nothing new. “That’s just the thing, yeah.  There is no crime scene.”

Able to hold back the frustrated sigh but not the frustrated tone in his voice, Sherlock asked “What do you mean no crime scene.  If this man died of natural….”

“No” Lestrade interrupted him.  “That’s just it.  No one knows where the body came from or who he is.  Last night there was no body.  Today there was.  No records of a body being logged in from this hospital or any other, no matching description from any one who had previously been on the wards…nothing.”

“Who’s in lab today?” Sherlock asked abruptly, hardly able to reign in his excitement over a possibly intriguing case.  It had been so long since he had one.

“Molly Hooper” Lestrade answered just as Gabriella decided to wake up and announce it to everyone within hearing distance.

“Is that… Do you have visitors?” Greg asked hesitantly.

“No” Sherlock responded standing up and moving towards _his_ bedroom.  

“But that is definitely a baby crying” the other man stated.

“Well done Lestrade.  I can certainly see how you got promoted to DI.”  He walked over to the basket and picked the wailing baby up.  She instantly stopped.

“Okay, fine.  Why do you have a baby?  Please say you haven’t wrangled one from some poor first time young mum as part of an experiment.”

With a practiced eased that he had picked up rather quickly over the past four days Sherlock placed Gabriella over his shoulder and nursing her with one hand while he held the phone in his other hand as he corrected his DI’s absurd theory.

“Yes, I have a baby, have done for four days now and for your information, no it is not an experiment.  It is John’s baby.”

There would have been silence at the other end of the phone had Sherlock not been able to hear the cogs in Lestrades brain turning over slowly.  “But…you said…”

“Yes, that the baby wasn’t John’s.  I was wrong.”

“I’m sorry, did you just say you were wrong?”

“It does happen from time to time, Gavin, even you are aware of this.  But in this case I was wrong because I was told a very convincing lie.  As it turns out, John Watson does indeed have a very healthy, Watson looking, baby girl.”

“So, John is back then?”

The silence that had cut through their conversation spoke volumes.

“May I ask, _how_ you came to have John’s baby when he is still gone?”  Lestrades voice was hesitant, yet it was a fair question.

“It appears that Mary was unable to care for the child and felt that I would be a better alternative.”

Sherlock was ready for more questions.  What he was not ready for was the loud cackle of laughter that travelled through the ear piece of his phone.

“You have got to be kidding, right?  You?  With a Baby?”

Sherlock refused to be insulted further.  “Do you need me to look at this body or not?” he snapped.

Sensing that he may possibly have hurt Sherlocks feelings (god forbid he show those once in a while) Lestrade toned down his chuckles and cleared his throat.  “Umm, yeah, if you’ve got the time.”

“I’ve course I’ve got the time.  I have nothing but time.  Any lead on either John or Moriarty have gone cold and there hasn’t been a decent case since before Christmas.”

“Right then” lestrade mumbled.  “I guess I’ll see you in…”

“Give me forty-five minutes.  I need to feed and change Gabriella.”

There was a sound on the other end of the line that sounded a lot like a bitten off chuckle before Lestrade agreed to see him at the morgue in forty-five minutes and then rang off.

With the baby fed and changed Sherlock went to his own room to change out of yesterdays clothes, freshened up in the bathroom and then went to the front door and donned his coat.  Just as he was about to step out of the door a now familiar cooing sound came from the basket in front of the couch.

The baby.  Sherlock had forgotten about Gabriella.  Quickly turning back around he stalked over to the basket and looked down at the small pudgy form currently wrapped in a yellow blanket.

“I suppose you could come with me” he murmured to her.  She responded by trying to kick her legs out of the tight swaddle.  “But I can already hear your father telling me that that’s a bit not good” he continued with a frown.  Gabriella’s brow copied his and dipped down.

“Mrs Hudson” he called, going back to the door.  No sound.  Not even her radio which she always listened to in the morning except on…. It was Thursday.  She went out with Mrs Turner on Thursday mornings.

He pulled out his phone.  His parents would have boarded their train twenty minutes ago.  Maybe he should have agreed to their offer of…no, that was just crazy thinking.

Thumbing down his phone book to the next contact he hit ring.  It only rang once before it was answered.

“Uncle Mycroft” he beamed with a large grin on his face, before his brother had a chance to say a word.  The response he got was the disengaging beeps and then silence.

Sherlock swore before re-pocketing his phone and then spun back around to look at the baby again.  She grinned, just like her father did when they were about to do something stupid and at that, Sherlock made up his mind.

“Well, if your father didn’t want me imposing my bad habits on you, then he should be here, shouldn’t he” he told Gabriella as he checked her bag to make sure there was enough supplies to last a few hours, then, locating the baby sling he had ordered on line he took off his coat and attached it, making sure the baby sat snuggly against his chest before putting his coat back on and he left the apartment to go look at a mysterious body at the morgue.


	6. In which DI’s are insistent, pathologists become babysitters without realising that they are becoming babysitters, Sherlock solves a case based on lube then slightly panics and Greg can’t wait for John to return.

~~~~~~~~~~

“No!  Definitely not!”  Greg stood in front of the slab with his arms crossed defiantly across his chest.

“But you called me down here” Sherlock argued, knowing that it was going to take a lot more than that to get the DI to change his mind.

“Yeah, you.  I called _you_ down here.  Not you and baby.  You are not taking her anywhere near that body.”

“She won’t contaminate anything.  She is strapped to the front of me for crying out loud.”

“It’s not him I’m worried about” Lestrade said, his head nodding back towards the body on the table behind him.

“But he is dead.  He’s not going to do any harm”

“The answer is no, Sherlock.  I’m not budging.  No children near the corpse.  Find someone to watch her or I do this without you.”

Sherlock snorted.  As if they could.

The look that Greg threw him was one that Sherlock didn’t see often.  It was one of stubborn defiance.  He was not going to give into Sherlock this time.

“Fine” was Sherlocks response through clenched teeth.  “I’ll be back in five minutes” and in a swirl of coat tails he turned and stalked out of the morgue, as well as one can stalk with a seven week old baby strapped to their chest.

~o~

“Oh, my god.  Is … is that a baby?”

“I know you work with the dead, which mainly consists of physically matured adults, but I thought even you would have known a baby when you saw one.”

“Well, yes, I mean, I know it’s a baby, but, where did you get a baby from.”

“John.”

“So it’s John’s baby?”

“Yes.”

“And John is?”

“Somewhere.”

“Oh.  Okay.  Well, what can I do for you?”

“Nothing, really.  I was just wondering if you had had a coffee yet?”

“Umm, I was just thinking of getting one.  Would you like me to get you one too?”

“Not this time Molly.  This time I thought I would get you a coffee.  How about one of the good ones from the cafe’ across the street?” Sherlocks smile was large and probably a little bit scary but it would leave Molly a bit off kilter and that was exactly how he needed her at the moment.

“Umm, sure, that would be…lovely.”

“Excellent!  You don’t mind watching Gabriella for a bit, while I run on over.  Just that it had started to rain as I got here and I don’t want her getting wet” he asked as he dropped the nappy bag on the desk and unclipped the baby from the sling.

“Umm, well I was just about…” Sherlock thrust the baby into her arms.  “…Okay, sure.  I guess I can take ten minutes off” she said with a nervous smile and Sherlock flashed her another one of his manipulating smiles and turned and left Molly’s office while the two ladies in the room cautiously looked each other over.

~o~

“Please tell me you did not drop her off at the maternity ward” Lestrade sighed.

“Relax.  She is in good hands and most definitely not in the maternity ward.”

“Do I want to know?” 

“Probably not.  So, am I allowed to see the body now?” Sherlock asked sarcastically.

Lestrade had a look on his face that said he was seriously contemplating on throwing Sherlock out, but instead he stepped away and allowed Sherlock past.

Pulling on some gloves and pulling out his loupe Sherlock got to work analysing the body of what appeared to be a perfectly healthy male in his mid twenties.

~o~

Molly looked down at the baby in her hands.  The baby looked back up at her.  It was strange having the eyes of John Watson look up at her from the chubby, drawling face that was nestled under dark brown, curly locks.  It was almost easy to believe that Sherlock and John had somehow managed to produce a child together, especially with the scowl that was upon her tiny brow.

“Umm…hello, I guess” she finally said. 

Gabriella kept frowning at her for a few seconds and then broke into a smile.  Tension Molly didn’t even know she was holding seemed to drain away and she smiled back at the baby in her arms.

Once upon a time this would have been a dream of hers.  Holding a baby that Sherlock had placed in her arms, but it would have been his and hers, not John’s and that right there was the problem.

As the two of them spent more and more time together it was clear to see that she would never have a chance with Sherlock, not with him making eyes at John every time the other man turned his back.

When she had found out that John was engaged she had wanted to lash out at John, especially after all that Sherlock had done for him, but it wasn’t her place.  When she found out that Mary had left John she was secretly happy.  Not that she wanted to see John hurt, after all, he was a good man, but now, finally, maybe after all this time of those two pining over each other, they might actually get their act together and do something about the crush they had both been harbouring since 2010, but then John had disappeared and Molly had never seen Sherlock so lost, not even after he had pretended to kill himself and once again, Molly wanted to hurt John, even though she could sort of understand why he needed to leave.

But now, this here in her arms, this was a game changer.  Sherlock had smiled as he entered her office and although it hadn’t been the most generous of smiles, it had been a smile all the same.  Sherlock having this baby had brought some hope back to the man.  He had even offered to go and get her coffee.

“Speaking of coffee…” she said looking down at Gabriella with a worried frown before looking up at the clock on the wall.  “Sherlock…Uncle Sherlock?..well, what ever you want to call him when you get older, should be back soon.”

Again, the baby just smiled up at her and she had a sudden feeling that this small creature knew something that she didn’t.

~o~

“The morgue was locked all last night.”

“You make that sound like it would be hard to get in.” 

“Well, to most of us that have a certain code of morals we like to keep and don’t dedicate our lives to closely examining every way to test the local constabulary, it probably was hard to get in, especially since there is an alarm that didn’t go off and a security camera, which shows absolutely nothing.” 

“And that tells us what?” Sherlock asked, as if he were talking to a small child.

“…they are familiar with the morgue?”

“If it weren’t for the question mark on the end of that statement I would have congratulated you” Sherlock murmured, lifting up the man’s testicles and looking underneath them.  Greg winced and decided to ignore the barb.  He could try and tell himself that there was an excuse for Sherlock being a particular sassy brand of prick today, but to be honest ,the truth was he was a prick all the time.  Greg wondered, and not for the first time since he first encountered Sherlock nine years ago, if he should be worried that he actually didn’t mind Sherlocks brash, acerbic attitude.

With a sigh he went back to focusing on what Sherlock was doing and pulled a face of disgust as Sherlock got close to the man’s groin and sniffed.

“Who ever he was, he had sex before he died.”

“Do I want to know…”

“Wet Stuff Warming Banana Lubricant” Sherlock stated.

“You can get banana scented lube?”

“Claims to taste like it too, it’s a lie.  If you bothered to read my blog you would see that I have tested, catalogued and described the texture, viscosity, quality and flavour of over 280 brands personal lubricant, from the very basic, to the rather ridiculous.  This particular one ranked up near the latter.”

“You made a study on lube?”

“Did you not sleep well last night or are you being slow on purpose?  Look for young female workers who have access to the morgue.  Possibly someone doing residency or an internship.  They are possibly grieving.  In the mean time I will get Molly to do an autopsy, paying particular attention to any heart anomalies.  Now, if you don’t mind, I have a coffee to pick up.”

“Wait” Greg called out, Just as Sherlock reached the double doors to the morgue.  “Care to elaborate for those of us who are having a particularly slow day?”

The sigh that left Sherlocks mouth was loud in the large room and with what appeared to be with great pain, he made his way back to the body.

“Young apparently, healthy male.  No sign of injury or physical trauma.  There are no puncture marks on his skin that I could find, no sign of a struggle and no visible signs that he had been poisoned, although without a tox-screening that is impossible to call correctly.

“There is, however, evidence, minimal that it is, that he had engaged in sexual intercourse with a woman last night before he died.  Someone has tried to clear away the evidence, possibly because she was cheating on her current partner with him or because she panicked.  I would personally go with both, but without actually meeting her it is too hard to tell at the moment.  

“It was someone who was familiar with the morgue, as they knew the code to get in without tripping the alarm and had a swipe card.  They are also a person with either a very friendly or very manipulative personality, I would put money on the latter, as they got security to close down the security cameras for 45 minutes while they were in here, crossing off ‘ _having sex in a morgue’_ off of their bucket list.

“My guess is our body here had an underlying heart condition and half way through coitus suffered a heart attack and died, quite possibly instantly.  She panicked because a)she wasn’t meant to be here at three-thirty this morning,  b) the morgue is not some seedy hotel room that you bring someone back for a quick shag and c) she was more than likely having an affair with the man.  The security guard who shut down the cameras, probably claiming a glitch, won’t come forward because he is not prepared to lose his job.

“Graham, I’m sure even you can draw the rest of the dots together. As I said.  I need to go and get a coffee.”

“Black with three sugars” Greg called as the doors swung shut.  “And it’s Greg, you tosser” he grumbled to himself, pulling out his phone and firing off a text to Sally, explaining Sherlocks theory.

~o~

Molly looked up at the clock.  She had been sitting here, with a so far content baby for half an hour, who was now starting to yawn and blink excessively.

“I’don’t think there is going to be coffee” she said and Gabriella frowned before breaking out into another gummy smile.

Standing up she decided that she was not going to be used by Sherlock any longer.  If he wanted a babysitter, he could go find one.  She had an actual job to do and it did not involve small, living babies.  

She had a Kidney to dissect.

“Come on then.  I have a pretty good idea as to where he is” she said to Gabriella and, hoping she didn’t trip or drop the baby along the way, she made her way out of the office and towards the morgue.  

Just as she was about to reach the doors they swung open and a very wary looking detective slunk through.

“Greg” Molly called as he turned in the opposite direction.  Greg stopped and turned at the sound of Molly’s voice and an annoyed look of frustration fell across his features.

“You have got to be kidding me.  He left the baby wth you?”

Molly gave him a look of sympathetic confirmation, followed by a smile that said, ‘ _Well, we know what he’s like_.’

A small sound of frustration left Gregs tightly pursed lips.  “Give her here” he said after a few seconds, holding out his arms.  “Surely you have your own work to do.”

Molly gave Greg a thankful smile and handed the baby, who had fallen asleep on the very short trip from the office to the morgue, over to Greg.  “Thank you.  I don’t suppose you know where he has gone?”

“Said something about a coffee. Left maybe two minutes ago.”  Greg jiggled Gabriella around gently until she was safely nestled in the crook of his arm, not once, stirring from her sleep, other than to frown,  “God, she has only been with him for a few days and she has his frown of disapproval perfected already.”

A small laugh left Molly as she nodded in agreement.  “Thanks” she finally said, pulling Gregs gaze away from the infant in his arms.  “If you see him, just let him know that I had to go to lab 2, yeah.”

Greg nodded that he would do just that and Molly turned and left towards the other end of the corridor.  Greg sighed.  A coffee really did sound good and he knew that that idiot in the ridiculous coat wasn’t going to get him one, and he didn’t trust himself carrying one of the flimsy takeaway cups that the hospital offered whilst carrying a sleeping baby, so to the vending machine by the fire escape it was.  A snickers and a can of coke was hardly the worst thing he had ever had for lunch.

~o~

“One choc-mocha with a double hit of mocha and no fro….”

Sherlock stopped as he looked up from the cup in his hand to an empty office.  

There was the sling and the nappy bag but there was no Molly and most importantly, there was no Gabriella.

Hastily placing the cup on the closest surface he spun around and rushed out of Molly’s little office, heading for the morgue to see if she was there.  He pushed through the doors.  The only person there was dead and laid out on the table.  Quickly, he turned back and pushed through the doors again, turning to head towards the labs.  He was stopped in his tracks by a familiar voice quietly calling out.

“Oi.  I think I have something that belongs to you.”

Sherlock spun around at the sound of Lestrades voice and visibly relaxed at the sight of a very familiar yellow grow-suited baby bundled in his arms.

In three long stride Sherlock was in front of the DI, reaching out to retrieve his…John’s baby.

“Your welcome” Lestrade said with mock gratitude.  

“Where is Molly?’

“You know, some of us do actually have work to do.  Real, actual work that has timelines and a boss to answer to.”

“You told me to find someone to watch her” Sherlock nodded down at Gabriella, who had woken up while being transferred from one pair of arms to the other  “Did you honestly think I was just going to hand her over to some random stranger?”

“Well, you are going to have to find someone, Sherlock.  You can’t bring her to crime scenes.”

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes.  “If you are insinuating that I would become distracted…”

“No, I’m not insinuating anything.  I know you would become distracted.  You become distracted by a lot of things - a baby would only add to the list, but that isn’t why you need to find a carer for her.  She cannot be exposed to the things we do Sherlock.  It’s not healthy for her.”

“She will be fine.  At this age she will not even retain…”

“No, until you can prove to me that you have organised adequate care for her, I am not calling you in on any cases, am I clear.”

At this the detective earned himself a glare from not only Sherlock, but from Gabriella also.  He only just barely managed to suppress the shiver that had started at the base of his neck, threatening to run down the entire length of his spine, but he wasn’t going to budge.  If he gave in on this than before long Sherlock would have the baby with him at all kinds of crime scenes,  not just morgue visits and not that Sherlock would purposely put the child in danger but he did have a habit of spontaneously running after dangerous criminals without thinking first.  Greg didn’t want to imagine what would happen if he temporarily forgot that there was a small child strapped to the front of him.

No, this had to be nipped in the bud right now.  No child at work.  Ever.  At all.

“Crystal” the detective drawled petulantly and turned and left, heading towards Molly’s office, presumably to get the rest of Gabriella’s things before going home to have a sulk.

Greg let out another sigh.  Nobody made him do that as often as Sherlock.  Not even Anderson, but if he had thought that John Watson made him a better person, then John Watsons daughter was making him worse.

“Wherever you are John, you need to get back here now!” Greg muttered and then walked away, binning his half full can of coke to go in search of some real caffeine, wishing that he still smoked.

 


	7. In which big brothers still insist on meddling, Sherlock tells stories about John, Gabriella gets her own room and Mycroft really is a big softie at heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter to wrap up the last two (as all three were originally one long chapter). The story will start getting a bit more in depth soon!! Any ways, hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock knew someone had been in his flat before he saw the files on the table in the living room.  And he knew exactly who it was.  

Agent Kale, one of Mycrofts more minor minions, trusted with the mildest of tasks, despite being in his employ for over eight years.  

Sherlock knew who it was because he could still smell sagey-citrusy traces of _‘Davis Beckhams Classic Blue_ ’, which Kale apparently bathed in every morning.  Judging from the amount that still lingered in the flat and the strength that the moron wore it, it was at least forty-five minutes ago that he was here, maybe even half an hour.

As Gabriella had started fussing on the way home Sherlock decided to feed her before tending to whatever drivel his interfering git of a brother had had delivered.  It obviously wasn’t anything he had deemed worthy enough to deliver himself so therefore it was nothing pertaining to either John or Moriarty, therefore it was not important.  Making sure Gabriella didn’t start squawking loudly, on the other hand, was.

Gabriella took the teat of the bottle into her mouth and starting sucking instantly.  “You’re going to give yourself another stomach ache” Sherlock told her matter of factly.  “Your father did the same thing once.  One night we stopped at Angelo’s, you’ll meet him one day and trust me when I say you will never have to pay for Italian cuisine in your life, and we were on a case so he practically inhaled his food before I could drag him away from it.  Granted, it had been over two days since he had last eaten a proper meal, but it was all unwarranted as we sat there for three hours waiting for a contact and for two and three quarter hours of that time he did nothing but complain that his stomach ached.  I had warned him that the cannoli was a bad idea, but did he listen to me?”

Sherlock watched the baby greedily ingest her ‘ _food_ ’ and sighed fondly.  “Looks like you’re not one to listen to me either.”

The rest of the day consisted of reading forensic journal entries out loud to Gabriella, correcting the mistakes before he voiced the information, feeding and changing the baby, playing peek-a-boo (the novelty of that wore off rather quickly for Sherlock, but Gabriella apparently had ideas and the tedium drew out for a whole fifteen minutes) and ignoring texts from both Mycroft and Lestrade.  If John nor Mrs Hudson was not around to see the strop he was still having over the telling off Lestrade had given him then he would just have to convey it to other people, through other means.

After her bath (Mrs Hudson had told him that under no terms was he to hold her under the shower like a limp rag again) Gabriella was dressed and fed and then Sherlock played his violin as she quietened down.  It was from a piece that he had been composing since he came back from his four minute exile.  He hadn’t given it a name yet, but it was thought of as Johns piece.  It was everything he had wanted to say on the tarmac before he boarded the plane but couldn’t.

It was everything he had felt these past eleven weeks, the last four days not counted as he had been too busy to even think about picking up his violin, let alone work on a composition.  

It was, as predicted, lulling Gabriella into a gentle sleep.  

Once he was sure she was in a deep enough sleep to be moved he picked her up from the basket and carried her upstairs, deciding that the room had been aired out quite enough for her to start sleeping in there.  

As soon as she was laid down in her cot her eyes flew open and she started crying, so Sherlock picked her up again.  She stopped and her eyes closed again.  

Sherlock rocked her until he was certain she fast in a deep sleep and placed her down in the cot again.  Again, her eyes flew open and she started sobbing.  Not waiting for it to turn into full-out crying Sherlock picked her up and rocked her back to sleep, this time for a bit longer than the last.  

Again, once she was placed in her cot she started crying.  

Sherlock huffed.  This couldn’t go on.  She had to learn to sleep in her own room, so wracking his brain over everything he had learnt the past four days he came up with a solution.  Leaving the baby to cry for a brief moment he ran down stairs, grabbing the bee out of the basket and his pyjama top off of his bedroom floor before running back upstairs again.  

Gabriella was still crying, her face now bright red, her cheeks stained with tear tracks.  He picked her up one more time and she calmed down, her cries turning into little stuttering’s of hitched breaths before she completely fell silent, apart from her soft breathing and closed her eyes and went back to sleep.  

Holding her with one hand he laid his teeshirt out on the mattress and then, very gently, laid her on top of it.  She didn’t instantly start crying but she did start to cry, so he squeezed the bees belly and placed it by her hip before pulling the blanket up over her tiny body.  There were no more disturbances and Sherlock felt content enough to walk away, not shutting the door all the way and checking that the baby monitor had been switched on.

Once downstairs he stopped in the doorway and stared at the packages from his brother that was still sitting on the table, untouched.  With a sigh, he walked over and grabbed them before sinking down into his own chair.

As expected, there was no news on John nor on Moriarty inside the large envelope that had been sitting on top of the file.  What was unexpected was information pertaining to a trust fund set up in the name of Gabriella Watson-Holmes.   Sherlock wanted to be annoyed at Mycrofts meddling, but this would help Gabriella in the future. Plus Mycroft would have done this under threats from Mummy, which just made Sherlock smirk.  All the power in the free world and the man still cowed at the thought of his mother.  He ignored the thought that she had the same effect on him and opened up the second envelope.  This one caused him to frown and want to throw the contents across the room. He didn’t, because he knew they would be helpful, but he wanted to.

He held in his hands a list of reputable day care centres and organisations offering nanny services.  Each one would have been thoroughly vetted by Anthea, each staff member at each organisation having a thorough background check , on not only themselves, but on those close to them as well.  

‘ _Gus would be happy_ ’ he silently sneered and placed the list of child care options on top of the trust details. 

The third, and last envelope was large and thick and heavy.  Obviously a book.  Sherlock tore open the top and slid the content out into his hand.  Again Sherlock smirked.  So much for sentimentality being a flaw.

In his hand Sherlock held an almost pristine condition, original publication, of _House at Pooh Corner._

A small note stuck out from between the front cover and the first page.  Sherlock slipped it out and read it.

_‘For Gabriella_

_From Mycroft’_

Sherlocks smirk softened somewhat as he placed the note back inside the book.  This would be placed up in Gabriella’s bookshelf tomorrow when she woke up and kept as proof that his brother wasn’t so much the iceman as everyone believed him to be.

 


	8. In which John finally comes home to a house that isn’t his anymore, takes a trip to Baker Street in the middle of the night and plots the murder of both Holmes brothers.

~~~~~~~~~~

The beam from the taxi’s headlights illuminated the brick wall, the glint catching on  the bottom half of the window causing him to squint as he leant forward and slipped the cabbie some money.

“Thanks” he mumbled as he slid out of the taxi, hauling his rucksack up on his right shoulder as he slammed the door shut.  He winced, instantly regretting the action.  After all, it was 2:45 in the morning.  Just because his house was vacant of all occupants, doesn’t meant that the ones around it were also empty.

The cab pulled away, taking a majority of the light and John fumbled in his pocket for his keys.  

It was clear that someone had been here in Johns five and a half month absence.  The curtains had been drawn, there was no mail in the letterbox and the pot plant next to the front door was thriving.  Much more than when he or Mary had been looking after it.  It even had small flowers budding up the top, not something that either of them had ever expected to see.

A brief though flicked through his head at the thought of Mary having returned to their house and he had a fleeting urge to stop his pursuit of his keys, only to decide that, fuck it - if he had to he would sleep on the couch, but he wasn’t being driven away from his home.  Not when he was so fucking exhausted.

Finally, after several seconds of digging in his pocket, past his wallet, his fingers gripped around the My Little Pony keyring (Bill Murray was an absolute knob-head - John would be getting him back for that) and pulled them out of his pocket, only to fumble around in the dark, cursing silently as he tried to find the correct key and stick it into the small hole, where it was meant to go.

A frustrated sigh left his mouth as the key refused to turn and the last time he had unlocked this door came back to him with startling clarity.  The memory no longer left him angry, but somewhere, deep in his gut, it still hurt.

He was getting ready to just throw a rock through the pane of glass on the front door when suddenly the inner light flickered on just as the front door was wrenched open, taking his keys with it and John looked up at a rather formidable, largish woman with her hair in curlers and a rolling pin angled up as a threat, the scowl on her face putting every battle-axe of a teacher he had ever had at school to shame.

“Can I help you?” she asked, but her tone offered anything but being accommodating, unless it was help with getting his head bashed in with a rather heavy looking rolling pin.

“Umm, yeah, this is my house.” John offered hesitantly, looking up at the number next to the door frame.  Number 37.  He definitely had the right house.  The pot plant, despite being healthier than ever, was also definitely the same one as well.

“It really isn’t” the woman warned and John saw her hammy fist clench tighter around the rolling pin.

Suddenly, the anger John didn’t feel before started seeping in.  “”No, it really is.  I brought this house with my….with another person, nearly two years ago.  It is definitely my house.”

The woman glared down at him, her puffy lips pursing rather tightly.  “Well, that may be so, but I purchased it four months ago.  It is definitely no longer your house.”

John opened his mouth to retort and then snapped it back again, his teeth clicking loudly in silent night.  Surely Mary wouldn’t have sold the house, not without his input.  Anyway, even if she had wanted to she couldn’t have.  John’s name was on the deeds.  

Instantly, everything became clear.  This had Holmes written all over it.  They had something ( _everything_ ) to do with this.   With a deep breath, that he had often used in the past as an alternative to killing Sherlock on the spot, he looked up at the woman, with a forced calm expression on his face.  

“My apologies Mam,  It appears that in my absence someone felt it acceptable to sell my house.  I promise that I will not bother you any further.”

“I should think not” the woman replied haughtily and John turned to leave.  Just as he was about to step off of the porch he turned back to the woman, who raised the rolling pin back up to shoulder height.  

“Would it be too much trouble to ask you to ring me a taxi.  It’s just, I don’t have a phone” he asked and he was certain the woman was really going to clobber him over the head with the lump of heavy wood in her hand.

~o~

“God damn, fucking arrogant tossers” John groused as the cab sped through the quiet streets of London, his hand clenching around the pink pony, which he had retrieved once the new owner of _his_ house had reluctantly agreed to call him a taxi.  “Always fucking interfering…if it’s not one twat, it’s the fucking other.”

John noted the cab driver give a small shake of his head at his mumbled ravings but he couldn’t give a shit if the man thought he was crazy.  Right now he was mad.  Fucking furious.  

The weariness that John had felt getting off of the plane at Heathrow had dissipated.  The longing for an actual bed, soft with blankets and pillows had been pushed away, taken over by the longing of ripping fucking Sherlock Holmes a brand new fucking hole.

“I actually think I will kill him this time round” John muttered.  “This time, there will be no fucking waiters to pull my fingers from around his god damn throat, the interfering, controlling wanker.  As for Mycroft, I’ll smother that bastard in his god damn trifle because I _know_ that he had a hand in all of this… self- righteous prick.”  John’s voice was low and threatening, mainly consisting of muttered mumbles, but apparently, in the quiet car, it was still loud and clear enough to be heard in the front seat.

“Are you certain you’re okay, mister” the cabbie finally asked, quite possibly taking Johns threats literally, mind you, at that moment, John was feeling pretty bloody murderous.

“Peachy” was Johns dry reply, and he returned to broodingly look out of the window, keeping his raging rants to himself for fear of being delivered to New Scotland Yard rather than 221B Baker Street.

Eventually the cab stopped in front of an all too familiar building and just as he was about to exit the vehicle the cabbie spoke to him again.  “You sure you want to go in there?” he asked, his head nodding towards the black door.  “It’s just that, you seem pretty worked up.  Maybe you might be better off if you went and slept it off somewhere first.”

John just glared at the man and then through clenched teeth he hissed “I have no-where else to go because while I spent the last five and a half months patching up the sick and injured in a god-forsaken third world country, the tosser that lives here, sold my house without me knowing.”

The cabbie considered this and then with a short nod of his head he replied with, “Right you are then.  If anyone asks, I never dropped you off here.”

With a grateful nod in return, John slid out of a cab for the second time that night and made his way to yet another familiar door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just have to send out a thanks to DaringD, who said they wanted to smother Mycroft in trifle for being a bit of a tosser. I loved the idea so much that I had to put it in the story…thanks a bunch!


	9. In which John forgets he wants to yell at Sherlock, gets a bit of a shock and becomes a dad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Easter my lovely little readers. I hope the Easter Bunny is getting ready to bring you all an abundance of chocolaty goodness. 
> 
> Aren't long weekends with nothing to do just the best thing in the world!!! More time to watch crap telly and write with no one around to bother you, as this year it's not your turn to visit your parents for Easter :D
> 
> Annnnnyways, it turns out this is going to be a lots of chapters fic because I am trying to keep them short, as I have decided to practice a bit of “controlled writing” because it has been brought to my attention that some of my chapters, in other stories, have been a bit long winded, as has this note, so without making you wait any longer, here is Chapter 9.
> 
> Hope you enjoy, and as always, I love hearing from you all!!

~~~~~~~~~~

Quietly John made his way up the seventeen steps to flat B.  As angry as he was, he didn’t want to wake up Mrs Hudson.  It wasn’t her fault that her tenant was the worlds biggest bell-end.  So steadily he made his way up and opened the door to the living area which was, as usual, unlocked.

It took Johns eyes a few moments to adjust to the dull light of the room, but once they had he instantly spied the very person he was looking for.  Not giving a shit that the man was asleep John opened his mouth to start his rant when something odd registered.  Not only was Sherlock lying on the couch, which wasn’t unusual at all, but there was an even smaller form laying on top of his chest, his large hands holding it securely in place.  It took John far too long to register that what Sherlock had held snuggly against his body was a baby.  It took another few moments to realise that Sherlock wasn’t actually asleep, but was watching him with half-lidded eyes in the low light.

“Do continue to keep quiet, John.  She is teething earlier than all the books say she should be and I have only, not even half an hour ago, managed to get her to go to sleep.  If you wake her up it will be you who sits the rest of the night with her as this is the third night in a row that she has kept me up with crying, fever and loose bowels.  To be frankly honest, it has lost its charm, not that it was really all that charming to begin with.”

Hesitantly, John walked towards the couch and stopped in front of it, just staring down, still trying to take stock of the situation.   Despite what he was seeing, it was still hard to believe, so, hoping that voicing what he was seeing would help him understand better, he spoke.

“You have…”

“Yes”

“…a baby.”

“Very good, John.  I can certainly see that that medical degree has come in handy.”

“But…why?”

“Why not?”

“That’s not really an answer.”

“As usual, John, you look but you do not observe.”

John dropped down on the coffee table behind him, his eyes not once leaving the sleeping form on Sherlocks chest and he had a really good look.  The baby, around four or five months old, had a head of brown curls and was clad in a small romper suite covered in elephants and ponies.  Her chubby little fists were tucked up under her small body and her face, relaxed in slumber.  Her cheeks were flushed bright pink, noticeable even in this light.  There was a glint of drawl on her chin, a chin that looked like… his eyes dismissed that thought and travelled up her small face.  They stopped on her small nose, her small round nose that was exactly like…

“Oh my god, that’s…”

“Knew you’d get there eventually.”

“But…when…how…I don’t…”

“Obviously, John, Mary lied.”  Even Sherlock winced at those words and with a softer tone went on to explain.

“Not quite three months ago Mrs Hudson opened the door to find this one on our front door with a letter from Mary.  She had to lie to you.”

Johns hands clenched and he stood up, wanting to be away from Sherlock and…

He stalked over to the fire place.  “Convenient excuse that” he spat, keeping his voice low as not to wake the baby, but still full of spite and venom.  “Having to lie to poor little John.  He can’t handle the fucking truth.  It might fucking break him.  Let me guess. She did to save my life too.”

Again, John didn’t miss the wince on Sherlocks face but it was soon replaced by one of anger.  “In actual fact, no she didn’t.”he growled softly.  “She did it to save Gabriella’s.”

John couldn’t stop the intake of breath at the baby’s name.  _Gabriella_.  “That was my …”

“Grandmothers name, yes, I know.  She had to leave and pretend that a) the baby wasn’t yours and b) she had a still born in order to keep anyone from using Gabriella as a target.  She did it to save her life, not yours so you can put your self pity away and save it for another occasion.”

Sherlocks words were meant to hurt, John knew that, but they didn’t.  They rang true, but they had actually helped lift some of the pain he had being carrying around the past five and a half months.  

Mary hadn’t lied to him.  Well, she had, but not about the baby, well, she had, but not about what was important.  

“Where is she?” John asked, knowing the answer.  If she had wanted John to know where she was, she wouldn’t have left.  Sherlocks answer only confirmed his suspicions.

“We have no idea.  She asked us not to track her and so far we have honoured her wish.  I don’t have all of the answers, John” he continued as John went to go ask for more information.  “She has left you a letter, which will probably contain the same information as what was in mine, but beyond that we don’t know anything.”

“How old is she?” John asked, coming back closer to the two people on the couch.

“Four and a half months” Sherlock answered.  Gabriella twitched and whimpered and then quietened down again.

Jesus.  All this time he had been a dad and he had had no idea.  “Four and a half…How could I not know about this?”  John practically whispered the question, looking down at the tiny body on Sherlocks larger one, wanting to reach out and pick her up, but not wanting to wake her up.

“To be fair you have been off the radar for five and a half months” Sherlock replied matter of factly, and then, with more curiosity, “By the way, how did you manage that.  Not even Mycroft could find you.”

John looked from Gabriella to Sherlock, not registering the question straight away, blinking as his brain slowly rolled the words around in his sluggish brain before forming an answer.

“Bill Murray” he answered as if those two words were the answer to all that had happened the past five and a half months.

Sherlock gave a half nod, as if he knew exactly what John was on about, but as was usual when it came to John, he was clueless, yet decided to leave it for another time.  Maybe a time when John wasn’t so fatigued and, well, shell-shocked.

“So” the taller man, asked, nodding down to the baby on his chest.  The motion drew his gaze away from the sleeping infant up to the other mans face, the light from the range-hood in the kitchen glinting off of his eyes.  ‘Do you want…”

Again, John dropped down onto the coffee table and considered Sherlocks question, his fingers twitching wanting to reach out and take her from him, to hold her close, but then he looked down at her sleeping face.  She looked so peaceful and he didn’t want to disturb her.

“Move slowly and she will be fine” Sherlock offered, reading Johns obvious inner turmoil.

When John didn’t make a move the younger man moved so he was slowly sitting up, still holding the small child securely to his chest.  Without another word he gently pulled Gabriella away from his chest and held her out to John.  

John still didn’t make a move.  He just stared at the tiny bundle in those large hands, frozen, unable to move.  Gabriella snuffled and stirred and then settled back into a steady rhythm of tiny breaths.

“She won’t explode, John” Sherlock reassured him softly and John looked from Gabriella up to Sherlock, who was in turn studying John with a careful, focused gaze.

Slowly John lowered his eyes back to the sleeping baby in Sherlocks hands and very cautiously he reached his own hands out.  Following Johns lead Sherlock gently transferred Gabriella into Johns arms, adjusting her so her head sat comfortably in the crook of Johns arm and pulled his own hands away.  Throughout the entire transfer she only snuffled and drew in a deep shuddering breath once before promptly settling back down again.

John looked down at the baby in his arms, a sense of surreality washing over him as he brought his arms in close, leaning down to inhale her baby sent.  She smelt like baby powder and, oddly enough, peaches. 

For long minutes he sat there just staring down at the sleeping bundle in his arms, unaware of everything else in the room, Sherlock included.  Finally he looked up at the man in front of him, sitting patiently, watching him quietly. 

“I’m a dad” he said unable to stop the grin that spread across his face.

Sherlock smiled in return and then stood up.  “Excellent” he replied, walking away from John and Gabriella.  “Then you can sit the rest of the night with her.  I’m going to bed.”  And with that John abruptly found himself alone with a four and a half month old and no idea of what to do.

 


	10. In which John doesn’t think he can be a dad, Gabriella has favourites and Sherlock is the voice of reason.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, just another quick chapter and only a few days after the last one too, but I have a couple of assignments for uni coming up and should probably actually devote some time to them, so I thought I would get another instalment of the story in before I didn't think about it for a week or two.
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

John didn’t know what to do.  Gabriella hadn’t even slept for two hours before she woke up and started grizzling.  He had tried rocking her and bouncing her (the later only proceeded in making her cry even more).  After much searching he found a bag containing nappies and wet wipes, but even changing her didn’t settle her down, although it did help some.  Whilst looking in the kitchen for something to feed her with he did find a dummy so he stuck that in her mouth (after thoroughly rinsing it off first - god knows what has been in this kitchen) and she gnawed on that for ten minutes while he searched for whatever it was four and a half month olds ate.  He didn’t know this stuff.  This was all meant to have been learnt along the way.  He had prepared himself for a new born that was meant to be breast fed.  He did find infant paracetamol but he wasn’t sure when she had had the last dose nor did he know if she even needed it.  

John didn’t want to wake Sherlock, but Gabriella was not going to be kept quiet for much longer so John carried Gabriella to Sherlocks bedroom door and knocked.  There was no answer, so he knocked again.  Still no answer so he opened the door.  In the dimly lit room he could just make out a lump in the middle of the bed, soft but heavy snores filled the room.  If John wasn’t so concerned about having to feed the child in his arms he would have found the idea of a deeply sleeping Sherlock, snoring away, quite amusing, not at all what he expected, but the bundle in his arms was starting to get twitchy.  The dummy was obviously not going to last much longer as a soother and he really didn’t want her crying again.  It was heart breaking to watch her small face scrunch up as little tears run down her cheeks and not knowing what to do to make it stop.

“Sherlock” John called, but not too loud.  There was a snuffle in response, but that was all.  “Sherlock” he called again, this time, reaching out with the hand not holding Gabriella to his shoulder he shook the man.  

With a half groan as he stretched his back he finally answered with a sleep muffled “look in the fridge, microwave for 22 seconds, remove the teat first” and with that he rolled over onto his stomach and pulled the sheet over his head.  Before John had shut the door the snores had started up again.

Inside the very surprisingly clean fridge were three bottles, sitting in a neat row on the top shelf next to a tub of butter, a jar of jam and a block of mould free cheese.  Taking one out he removed the lid and followed Sherlocks instructions to heat the bottle up, making sure the lid was securely on before sticking the teat into Gabriella’s mouth as she started whimpering again.  

It didn’t work.  She just continued to cry around the silicone, small dribbles of formulated milk dribbling down her chin.

Quickly, he removed the bottle and held her up over his shoulder, rubbing a hand soothingly up and down her back, trying to get her to calm down, but this just resulted in her getting more worked up.  

John winced when he heard Sherlocks bedroom door click open and the sound of feet sleepily dragging down the hallway soon brought the yawning detective into the kitchen where John was trying to calm the baby down.  

Without a word Sherlock shuffled over to where he was and replaced Johns hand with his own, rubbing it over Gabriella’s back in long smooth strokes.  This just caused her cries to get louder as she tried to turn her head around to find the owner of the hand and when she finally laid eyes on Sherlock her wails became pathetic little sobs that seemed to tighten around John’s chest.  

Without another thought John handed her over to Sherlock.  The sobs eventually died down into little whimpers and Sherlock picked up the abandoned bottle and placed it in her mouth.  Instantly her little mouth started sucking hungrily at the teat.  

John looked away, refusing to feel sorry for himself.  ‘ _It is a purely natural instinct’_ he told himself.  ‘ _It s nothing personal.  I am a stranger.  Sherlock is familiar and her not being well only makes the situation worse_.’  The logical thinking didn’t make him feel any better though.

Once Gabriella had finished the bottle Sherlock held her back out to John.  John hesitated.

“She is more settled now” Sherlock assured him.  Unsure, John reached out and took the proffered baby, holding her up to his shoulder and pulling her close, but not too tight.  Instantly Gabriella started sobbing again and John quickly handed her back to Sherlock who had no choice but to take her as John pushed her into his arms.

“John” Sherlock placated.  “Just give her time…”

“She doesn’t want me.  She won’t take to me.  When we’re alone she is agitated at best, when you are in the room she cries until I hand her over to you.  I can’t do this.”

“And what?  You think I came to this naturally, that I simply fell into the role of fath…of carer with no problems whatsoever.  I had to learn it all as well.” Sherlock was using that tone that implied John was being an idiot, but John didn’t care.

“Yeah, and then you left me alone, with bugger all warning, to look after a baby last night.  No instructions, no tips, nothing!”

“You left me to look after her for three months.  _Me,_ John.  Think on that for a bit.”

John opened his mouth to argue that he had no say in the matter when Sherlocks words sunk in.  Sherlock had been thrown in the deep end with a baby.  _Sherlock_.  Looking around John took in everything he hadn’t since he got there.  There were not chemical smells permeating the flat, the only sign of experiments was Sherlocks microscope sitting neatly on the kitchen table.  The evidence board had very few pictures tacked to it and a few that were there had paper folded over them.  John had a sneaking suspicion that if he were to lift those folds he would find that they covered the more gruesome images.  When he had opened the fridge earlier that morning not only were there bottles made in advance but there was nothing unsavoury on the shelves, or if there had been they had been placed in sealed containers and left on the bottom shelf.  The flat looked generally cleaner and there were toys neatly stacked under the coffee table.

In three months Sherlock had stopped being a self-absorbed lazy git and turned into a nurturing, considerate father figure.  _Sherlock_.  He only had to look at how content Gabriella was in his arms to see that she was well looked after and for that John should be grateful.  John was grateful.  He was just…overwhelmed.

In under twenty-four hours he had returned home to England, to London, only to find himself practically homeless and a father to a four and a half month old.  He hadn’t slept in over forty-eight hours except for a thirty minute kip on the plane and his last proper meal was over eighteen hours ago.  He wasn’t even going to think about when he had showered last.

He was tired, hungry, dirty and had more questions than answers.  His life, which was already unbalanced, had been tipped upside down and given a rather thorough shaking and all he wanted to do was sleep and he felt guilty for wanting that because he should be wanting to try and bond with his daughter.  

As always, Sherlock didn’t miss a thing.  “Go lay down John.  You are clearly tired and this will be much easier to process once you are well rested.  I promise, we will still be here when you wake up.”  
John looked from Sherlock to the baby in his arms.  “Just a few hours” Sherlock prompted.  

Gabriella babbled something that resulted in drawl running down her chin and then she frowned at him and John couldn’t stop the giggle that rose up at how very muchly that looked like Sherlocks frown.  The giggle turned into a weary sigh.

Sherlock was right.  He needed sleep.

“Fine” he finally conceded.  “But just for a couple of hours, yeah?”  

“I promise I will wake you up myself” Sherlock assured him and with one final look at Gabriella John gave a short nod and then turned and headed towards the stairs to his bedroom.  He had just reached the landing when Sherlocks voice stopped him.

“Umm, John” he said and if John wasn’t so tired he would have said that Sherlock sounded nervous.  “There has been a slight change of plans to the sleeping arrangements.”

John turned and looked at the other man and noted that maybe it wasn’t his fatigue that made him think Sherlock was nervous.  The slightly worried frown and the chewing of his bottom lip left John feeling somewhat weary of what the man had to say.  

“What change?” he asked.

 


	11. In which Sherlock is still miffed that John left without him, while at the same time is ecstatic that he has returned, Gabriella chews on John’s jumper and Mycroft texts.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello my lovely readers. Just a quick one to let you know I am still thinking about you all and haven't forgotten about our boys in Baker Street.
> 
> As always, comments, kudos on con-crit are welcome with warm hugs, since winter seems to be settling in early here!

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock frowned at the bedroom door, different emotions warring through his body, each vying for the dominant position, as the sounds of John making his way to the bed faded into silence.  

There was fatigue.  He hadn’t been lying when he told John that Gabriella had kept him awake for the past three nights and without the adrenaline of a case to keep him going, he was really feeling it.  

Then there was pure glee.  As soon as he had heard Johns footsteps coming up towards apartment B his stomach had seemed to start bouncing around giddily and a grin kept wanting to spread across his face.  When he saw John, standing in the doorway of their lounge room, the only thing that had stopped him from springing up and practically running to the man, pulling him into a never ending embrace, was the small child, finally asleep on his chest.

After that came anger.  Anger at John for leaving.  Anger at John for pitying himself.  Anger at John for not explaining and anger at John for giving up too easily.

Mixed in with all of that there was fear.  Fear that John would continue to give up.  Fear that John would blame him for everything.  Fear that John would not only leave him, but would also take Gabriella with him.  And somewhere deep down, in a part of him that he purposely tried to ignore, was a fear that Mary had been wrong about how John felt about Sherlock.

And finally, there was guilt.  Guilt that he wasn’t just happy that John was home.  Guilt that John’s daughter preferred him over her own father.  Guilt that he hadn’t found John as soon as he knew about Gabriella.

All of those feelings swirled around until the coalesced into one big ball of confusion.  Why had he suddenly come back now, where had he been, who in the hell was Bill Murray and what was going to happen now?

With a tired sigh, Sherlock looked away from the door and over to Gabriella whose head was resting on his shoulder.  Her eyes looked up at him, large and blue, exactly the same as John’s had just before he declared to Sherlock, that he was a dad.  “Give him a chance” Sherlock muttered, turning away from the hallway and making his way through the kitchen.  “He really is a great guy.”

Gabriella gurgled and cooed in response, drawl soaking through Sherlocks t-shirt as they entered the living room.  A small cry of protest left her mouth as he placed her in the baby swing, but she soon shut up when he handed the other half of yesterdays biscuit.  Mrs Hudson had told him, repeatedly, that biscuits really weren’t suitable for a four month old as she may choke on it, but she only sucked on them until they were at a consistency that could just slide down her throat so he didn’t really see the danger, and it kept her quiet, allowing him to think.

He sat in his chair, facing the baby and set about isolating all of these feelings that he usually had a good handle on.  Trust John Watson, and his daughter, to make him lose control over his mind.  He didn’t get far into analysing anything when his phone beeped.  Gabriella stopped her gnawing for a brief moment to watch as sherlock pulled the phone out of his pyjama pocket and read who the message was from.  He looked from the screen towards the baby and said “Mycroft.”  He grinned triumphantly when Gabriella scowled before turning her attention back on her biscuit.

He opened the message and formed a scowl of his own.

**I see Doctor Watson has returned.  I will be by later in the morning to offer my greeting welcome.  MH**

Instantly, he tapped out a reply.

**We will be busy.  Sh**

**It will be brief. MH**

Sherlock refused to answer.  Mycroft would come regardless.  With any luck it could be timed just as Gabriella needed a nappy change.  Sherlock had thrust Gabriella upon his brother straight after feeding, while screaming, with a sopping wet nappy, while feeding and once just after she had discovered she could blow very wet raspberries, but not once had he left his brother alone with a dirty nappy.  There was always a first time for everything.  It all just came down to perfect timing.  Hopefully today Mycroft would arrive at just the right time.

With a final frown Sherlock pushed all thoughts of his brother out of his head and focused back on John.  John, who was home.  Who was asleep.  In Sherlock’s bed.  John, who would have questions.  John who would have answers.  Five and a half months worth of answers that Sherlock fully expected to get.  _Bill Murray_ was not an answer, and with that thought he picked up his phone.

**I want all the information on Bill Murray that you can find, since you feel the need to inconvenience us with your presence.  SH**

There was no reply, not that Sherlock expected one and that was good.  That meant that there was no argument against Sherlock having the information.  It would be handed over as soon as Mycroft walked in the room.

Sherlocks thoughts were pulled back to the present as Gabriella started to babble again.  Sherlock looked to her and watched as she tried to pull her self up from her slightly reclined position in the swing.  She would be sitting soon.  A bit sooner than the average baby, but she was, after all, John Watsons daughter.  She was bound to be full of surprises.

Sherlock looked at the biscuit smeared all over Gabriella’s face, so much drawl added that the solid was now just a lumpy, liquidy mess.  He looked around for something in the immediate vicinity that he could use to clean her up with and that is when his eyes fell on Johns jumper.  Sometime, while Sherlock was asleep, he had taken it off and thrown it on the couch.  Suddenly, Sherlock stood up and walked over to the couch and picked up the article of clothing.  He brought it up to his nose and inhaled, not that it was necessary, he could detect Johns scent before he even reached the couch.  Wherever John had been these past few months, regular showering had not been an option, and while the scent of the jumper was not unpleasant, it was potent, but that would just make his plan work all the better.  

Sherlock turned and walked to where Gabriella was and placed the jumper over the lower half of her body.  Instantly she grasped it and brought it up to her mouth and started gumming on the cuff in her hand.  Sherlock winced at the thought of what ever could be on the jumper and then shrugged.  It was hardly going to be anything that could kill her.  At worst it would give her an upset stomach (unlikely).  At best it would just help boost her immune system (more likely).  Realistically it would do nothing but add another sensory feeling as her tongue ran over the wool, allowing her to taste a different brand of dirt and dust from what she normally licked off of the floor from wherever he put her down.  

What Sherlock wanted it to do was acquaint her with the scent of her father.  Get her used to him so she wasn’t afraid of him or uncomfortable with him.  If she could be content being held by Mycroft, then she could be happy and perfectly at ease by being held by John. 


	12. In which John gets some answers, finds more questions and decides that confusion is probably going to be a constant state of being from now on in.

~~~~~~~~~~

_Dear John,_

 

_I cannot express how sorry I am at what you have been through these past few months.  Please believe me when I say that there was no other way to protect our daughter and while I don’t regret doing what ever it takes to make sure she stays safe I do regret that I had to hurt you (again) in the process._

_By now I am sure you have met your daughter, Gabriella Watson-Holmes, born on the 8th of February, one week earlier than planned.  She is everything we could have hoped for, and more.  She is beautiful and with you and Sherlock raising her she will be fantastic.  She will be smart and stubborn and generous and clever and most of all, loved._

_She will also be safe, which is something that she could never be with me in the picture._

_As far as medical records show, the child I was carrying was stillborn.  More records will show that Gabriella is an orphan that fell into your care, abandoned, parents unknown.  I know it will not keep the man who is calling himself Moriarty fooled for long, but it will be enough for me to start causing enough trouble that he won’t want to bother you and Sherlock, therefore Gabriella will be of little consequence to him._

_This way also allows me time to track and eliminate anyone who would be a potential direct threat to the three of you before they get a chance to do any damage._

_I could have put her up for adoption but even if I didn’t think she was more safe with you and Sherlock than anywhere else in the world, I don’t think I could have brought myself to do it.  I needed to know that the people caring for our daughter was going to love her and bring her up in the best way possible and the only people I could think of who were capable of that lived on Baker Street (because face it - we all know you would have moved back there eventually)._

_As for why I had to leave?  Moriarty returned.  Obviously not the real Moriarty.  He really did die on the roof of Barts from a gun shot wound to the head.  But there is someone who has taken his place and he will be well versed in who Moriarty’s allies were and who his enemies were.  I am on the latter list.  Near the very top of the latter list.  I won’t go into detail here.  Sherlock knows the story, he can fill you in, but it does mean that I was a bigger risk than you or Sherlock could ever have been in Gabriella’s life.  While I was around, she was always going to be a target and that was never an option._

_So, I falsified the paternity report (and I will be eternally sorry for the pain that caused you) and left, removing all threat my existence brought you, from your life.  It broke my heart to leave you that letter and while it continues to break my heart to let you go it is something that I have to do.  You have already suffered because of me John.  I couldn’t risk you suffering anymore._

_I know you. You are strong, the strongest person I have ever met and you will get over me, if you haven’t already.  You will move on.  If for no other reason than to be the best that you can for your daughter._

_That brings me to another point._

_As you are probably well aware of by now I placed both you and Sherlock on her birth certificate.  She carries both of your names.  This was done for multiple reasons._

_First off, if something should happen to you I needed to know that her back up carer would be just as capable to raise her and love her as much as her father.  There was only one person that could fill that role and I am positive that so far, in your absence (please do not beat yourself up over that John.  You needed it) he has done a marvellous job and quite possibly grown a bit more as the human we both know he is._

_The second reason is what is glaringly obvious to everyone that apparently isn’t you or Sherlock.  I know how you feel about him, John.  I have always known and while it should have bothered me, it never did because I was always more than grateful to have the part of you that you allowed me to have.  It was more than I deserved and what you did give me I will always cherish.  But it is time that you acknowledged how you really feel about Sherlock.  Trust me (and everyone else) when I say that he feels the same way, but he is, well…Sherlock.  Sentiment isn’t exactly his area.  It is going to be up to you to take the lead, and stop frowning -   You know I am right.  Self denial isn’t going to change a thing, plus, Gabriella is going to need a strong, loving, honest family unit in order to survive this world.  If she can’t get that from the two men who are raising her, then where is she going to get it?_

_Think on it at least._

_On that note I really must say goodbye.  Love our daughter, let her know that I loved her too.  I still do and always will.  Remind her of that every now and then for me, will you._

_I know you probably do not want to hear it but I do love you and I do wish all the best for both you and our daughter._

 

_Love_

 

_Mary_

 

John read the letter three times.  The first time he cried.  The second time he laughed.  The third time he felt a sort of peace settle over him.  It was mad and crazy and very typical.  

He knew he should feel a loss, and he did, but it was only small.  And he did love Mary, he always would but she did what she had to do and if that meant that their daughter was going to be safer then he could live with that.  If that made him hard or callous then so be it.  They were both doing what was best for Gabriella, even if John never did have a say in it.  What was done was done and being angry was not going to help anyone, so John let that feeling of peace settle over him and he folded up the letter and stuffed it in his rucksack.

He left Sherlocks room and went into the bathroom and splashed water on his face, trying to wake himself up a bit more.  Despite the two hours he had just had, it seemed like a week since he had slept and looking in the mirror, he saw that it looked it too.  

“What are we going to do?” he asked his reflection.  Not so surprisingly, it had no answers for him.  

What were they going to do?  After finding out that he no longer had a bedroom here at 221B Baker Street he had agreed to sleep in Sherlocks bed for the simple fact that he was too tired to argue but it couldn’t be an ongoing thing.  Despite the fact that Sherlock didn’t keep regular sleeping hours he did in actual fact use his bed when he did sleep.  

There was the possibility of moving out, but Gabriella had a home here.  It was familiar and at the moment she couldn’t even stand John holding her, so not being here was completely out of the question.

There was no way Johns back or shoulders would forgive him if he were to sleep on the couch for any more than two nights in a row and Sherlock, despite seeming to be able to fold into any space, couldn’t be expected to permanently crash on the couch either.  And why would he want to.  His bed was the most comfortable thing John had ever slept on.  If John was Sherlock, he certainly wouldn’t give the bed up.

“ _Looks like you’ll have to share”_ sang Mary’s voice in his head and he frowned at his reflection.  Mary’s letter, which had been left for him on the pillow next to his head while he slept, along with Gabriella’s birth certificate, medical records and immunisation records, had hit closer to home than he was comfortable with. 

Yes, he had feelings for Sherlock and he had stopped pretending otherwise after Sherlock flung himself off of the top of a hospital, but he had never made those feelings obvious to Sherlock, who despite being the most observant man in the word, was completely blind when it came to sentiment and the matters of the heart, and John would never act on them because despite what Mary thought, Sherlock did not reciprocate those feelings.  At least, not for John.

John groaned.  Why was this so damned hard?  The more he thought about things, the more he became confused which, he finally resigned himself to, was apparently going to be a constant state of being for John Hamish Watson.  He straightened up and turned towards the door.  Hiding in the bathroom was solving nothing and before he tried to sort anything else out he needed to make himself familiar with Gabriella.

With that resolve he marched out of the bathroom, feeling like he had just climbed down the rabbit hole.

 


	13. In which Mrs Hudson has words, Mycroft pays a visit and both John and Sherlock find it amusing at the way the British Government tries to demand answers.

~~~~~~~~~~

John pottered in the kitchen, cooking toast and making tea, while Sherlock flipped through the paper making small exclamations such as “ _Boring”, “Obviously the body is in the back yard, two houses over”_ and _“I see Mycroft has been meddling again”_ every now and then.  Gabriella was in her swing chewing on Johns dirty jumper, as she had been since he left the bathroom.  He had gone to take it away (it had been a while since it was washed) but Sherlock said she had been at it all morning.  Any damage that it was going to cause would have been caused already so why upset her by taking it away.  John had silently agreed with his reasoning and decided it was time for breakfast.

For a brief moment John let himself believe that this was just like old times, and really, it almost was.  The only difference had been that he didn’t have to fight for kitchen space and there was a baby in the doorway between the kitchen and lounge room.  Just like before he stirred milk into the two mugs of tea and put the milk away.  He then placed the cups on the table before turning around, just as the toast popped.

“Eat” he instructed as he placed a plate in front of Sherlock who responded by reaching a long hand over the paper and snatch a piece of toast with nothing but butter on it, his eyes still scanning the print in front of him, as John cooked his own.

It was just as John was sitting down at the table that John heard a familiar “Woo hoo, Sherlock” at the door and it was only at that moment that he realised how much he had missed all of this.  “I have your mail and a fresh batch of scones.”  Mrs Hudson stopped suddenly as she walked through the kitchen door, from the landing, her eyes settling on John.  For a brief second there was a look of surprise.  It soon fell away and that motherly look she got when Sherlock had used the microwave to explode a scrotum fell across her face.  “Well, I suppose you didn’t grow a moustache this time” was the only thing she said, which elicited a snicker from Sherlock, before placing the letters and the scones on the table before turning to Gabriella.

“And how are you today young lady” she cooed, which earned a smile and a dribbly babble from the baby as Mrs Hudson tweaked her nose.

“Still no tooth” Sherlock murmured as he turned the page.  

“Well, it won’t be long now” Mrs Hudson said reassuringly.

“She is trying to sit up though” Sherlock added, sounding slightly more interested and John was starting to feel as if maybe he had somehow blended into the background, for he may as well have not even been there for as much attention was being paid to him.

Mrs Hudson ruffled the baby’s hair with an appreciative tut and straightened up again, turning back to the table to glare at John again and John wished he actually had blended into the background.

“You look a mess” Mrs Hudson stated.  

“Yeah, thanks.  Sort of had my plans ruined when I got home at 2:30 this morning only to find my house had been sold.”

Although he kept looking at their landlady before him he did see, out of the corner of his eye, the newspaper that Sherlock was reading, slowly raise from where it was laying flat on the table to cover the man’s face.

‘ _Bastard_ ’ John thought, but it somehow sounded fond in his head.  His attention was then diverted back to his current landlady with an unimpressed _tsk_.

“Well, maybe next time you might want to leave contact details.”  Something resembling a muffled cough came from behind the paper accompanied by the sound of Mrs Hudson turning and heading back towards the door, Gabriella babbling off her own farewell in the background.  ‘ _Or she is agreeing’_ John thought depressingly.  He felt marginally better when Mrs Hudson stopped, just on the landing, and turned her head to say, “But it is good to have you home again, dear” and with that, she was gone.

Gabriella squealed , which turned into a grin when John looked at her.  “She is right” Sherlock muttered from behind the paper.  John looked towards his … flatmate?… to see two grey eyes poking over the top, and he cocked a questioning eyebrow.  “It is good to have you home again” and then he pulled the paper back up and continued to read.

The rest of the morning went by in some form of weird, comforting domesticity.  

John showered and shaved after cleaning up from breakfast while Sherlock attempted to pry Johns jumper away from Gabriella without starting a screaming fit.  When he came out he saw that the dishes had been done and could only assume that Mrs Hudson had been by again.

Sherlock forced the baby onto John, multiple times, to change and hold and amuse, and when it came time to feed her again, they sat side by side on the couch, the small body laying over Johns lap while Sherlock held the bottle.

“She will get used to you, John” Sherlock reassured him, each time he forced Gabriella into his arms.  “She just needs time.”

After the feed it was time to put her to bed, and John had been glad that Sherlock had followed him to the upstairs room because once he pushed the door open all thoughts of what he had been doing fled his mind and was replaced with just one word.

‘ _Wow!’_

His old room, his bland, pale blue, dusty bare room had been turned into a bright and airy nursery with flowers and bees and caterpillars painted on the wall.  A bright purple rug covered most of the floor and the old second hand furniture that had once sparsely decorated the room had been replaced with deep mahogany furniture.  Toys and books adorned the shelves and John knew instantly that Sherlock hadn’t done this on his own.  There was no way in hell that he would have brought Gabby (something he hadn’t tried in front of Sherlock yet) a brightly coloured hedgehog, which had been thrown haphazardly on the rocking chair in the corner, next to the wardrobe.

His musings over nurseries and hedgehogs was brought to an abrupt halt by Sherlock gently nudging him in the back.  

“Cot’s over there” he informed John, unnecessarily, pointing in the direction of the cot on the opposite side of the room.

Cautiously John carried Gabriella over to the cot and she must have sensed what was coming as she started squirming.  He laid her down on the mattress and pulled the blanket up over her and instantly she started whimpering.  John reached down to pick her up but a hand on his arm stopped him.  Instead Sherlock reached into the cot and plucked up a familiar looking bee and squeezed it, before placing it under the blanket next to her hip and just like that she stopped her sobs and her eyes drooped shut.  Sherlock silently indicated that they should leave and John followed him out of the room.

They were half way down the stairs when Sherlock stopped suddenly, his spine straight and his head cocked to the side.  Then he tensely hunched his shoulders, muttering “Oh, for god’s sake” and he hurried down the stairs and burst into the lounge room with all of his over dramatic flair.

“What are you doing here?” John heard him snap as he stepped off of the last step and he knew instantly who had intruded their home in the brief moment they were upstairs. 

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in Sherlocks chair, his brother looming over him, when John entered the room.

“I do believe you requested these” he drawled, holding up a rather thick file.  Sherlock snatched it away and stalked over to the couch, flopping onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes as the heavy folder fell to the floor with a dull _thump._

“Good, now you can piss off.”

Mycroft ignored his brother and looked to John with a pinched, in-genuine smile.  “Ah, Doctor Watson.  I see you have returned.  I assume your brief sojourn was pleasant.”

John rolled his eyes and stalked to the kitchen.  “Don’t for one second expect me to believe that you didn’t know exactly when I got into the country or where I had been” he said filling up the kettle.  He stopped what he was doing when he heard a deep, yet strained chuckle coming from the lounge room and when he looked over it was to a rather put out looking Mycroft.

John placed the kettle back on the counter and walked into the living room.

“Did you honestly not know where I was all this time?” John asked, a smug smile crossing his mouth.  It was then that he realised why Sherlocks laugh had sounded strained.  If Mycroft didn’t know where he was that meant that Sherlock didn’t know either.

“I did tell you, last night John” Sherlock said, dropping his arm away to lift his head to look at John.

John looked from one brother to the other and then back again.  “I was a bit distracted last night” he replied, his tongue darting out to wet his suddenly dry lips.  “I didn’t really take in much of what you said.”  John turned his attention back to Mycroft, but his question was really aimed at Sherlock.  “Did you really not know where I was?”  A wave of guilt rushed through his body.  When he left, he knew he would have time to leave the country before he was tracked down, but he honestly gave it a week, tops, before Mycroft found him.  After two weeks passed he had just assumed that the Holmes brothers had finally decided to let him have a bit of time to himself.  He had been so wrong.  All this time Sherlock hadn’t known where he was or what he was doing.  Or if he was even alive.  Now Mrs Hudson’s attitude made a lot more sense.

“I must say, Doctor Watson, your methods of evasion are quite impressive.”

John was sinking into his armchair before he even realised that he had moved.

“So, how did you stay off of the Radar for so long?”  Mycroft was doing a very good job at sounding like he was only mildly interested but John could see the rigid set of his shoulders and the dark glint behind his eyes.  It was really bugging him that John had managed to do something without him knowing about it and John decided that he wouldn’t actually mind it staying that way, should a day actually come that he needed to purposely evade the man sitting across from him.

“Bill Murray” was the answer he gave and it sparked a memory from last night of Sherlock asking the same thing and John giving the exact same answer.

“Yes, I have read his file” Mycroft explained carefully and John put two and two together, and came up with Sherlock had requested Bills information.  He would put money on it that that was what was in the file that Sherlock had been handed only moments ago.  “But it still doesn’t answer my question.”

John shrugged.  “Too bad.  It’s the only answer you’re getting.”

“Doctor Watson, do I need remind you that I have ways of extracting this information…”  He was stopped short by not only a snort of laughter from John, but also from Sherlock.

“God, it’s really eating you up, isn’t it” John stated with a small grin.  “That I know something and you don’t.”

Mycroft’s expression hardened as he glared at John.  John’s grin just grew and he stood up from his chair, all feelings of guilt and unease from before being replaced with feelings of prideful achievement and petty smugness.  “Tea?” he asked heading back into the kitchen.

“Please, John” came Sherlocks voice, too chirpy to be genuine but sweet enough to be a taunt towards his brother.  Mycroft stayed silent.

John came back in carrying three cups of tea.  He placed one by Sherlock, one in front of Mycroft and sat down with his own.

“Now” he said, matter of factly, after he had taken a sip of his too hot tea.  “Let’s discuss why you thought it was a good idea to sell my house.”

John noted that the smug look on Sherlocks face had disappeared.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The hedgehog in Gabriella’s room is real…have a look at http://www.toysrus.com.au/lamazr-huey-the-hedgehog_1326675/ It is quite adorable!


	14. In which John starts to get into the swing of fatherhood, bonds with Gabriella over a familiar predicament and Greg pays a visit and gets answers before Sherlock.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tinee-tiny chapter just to let you all know that I am still thinking about you all and haven't forgotten about the story!!
> 
> Happy reading and I hope you all have a wonderful day!! :D

~~~~~~~~~~

The following three days passed and John found himself falling into somewhat of a routine.  Gabriella warmed to him quickly, but it was clear that Sherlock was the favourite still.  John didn’t want to let it bother him, but it did.  

For the time being Sherlock and John alternated between bed and sofa.  Whoever had sofa duty also had night time baby duty and it somehow seemed to work, despite the protest John’s neck and shoulder gave him.  It was still better than what he had been sleeping on in previous months.  

Sherlock never asked where John had gone for five months, nor how he had done it, at least not directly.  Every now and then he skirted around the subject.  John could only assume that he was annoyed at not being able to outright deduce Johns methods and whereabouts as being the reason for not asking.  Asking would be conceding that he couldn’t read John and Sherlock didn’t like not being able to read people.

Johns second day back had been spent helping to look after Gabriella and trawling through all of the paperwork that Mycrofts minions had dropped off.  There were the papers pertaining to the sale of his house.  It turns out that within the first month of him being gone it had been broken into and ransacked on three seperate occasions.  Due to the fact that there were no other burglaries around the area the obvious reason was that whoever was doing it was looking for Mary, so it was a case of leave it empty to get repeatedly broken into and vandalised, rent it out and hope the tenants didn’t fall victim to whomever was looking for Mary or place everything in storage and sell it.  

His belongings were currently being held in a storage shed in Surrey, the fee being paid for with the proceeds from the sale of his house that had been transferred to a bank account, in his name, that he knew nothing about.  Apparently it had a high interest return.  He made a note to go down and remove a few things before selling the rest off.

Another thing that had been in the pile of paper work was divorce papers.  John signed them without even looking at them.  What was the point?  Mary wasn’t coming back and even if she did, John wasn’t sure the marriage would have lasted anyway.

Following that were papers concerning Gabriella.  He had a good look over her birth certificate and all of her medical records.  Following that was the details of what was a rather healthy looking trust fund.  John had protested to Sherlock about how he couldn’t accept it but Sherlock had replied with “Mummy insists” and went back to soldering what looked like a thimble to a cow bell.  John had met Mummy Holmes twice (three times if you count that time right after Sherlock had returned from the dead) and one thing he had learnt very quickly was that if Mummy Holmes insists, then Mummy Holmes gets.

Day two was more relaxed.  John managed a trip to Tesco, discovering too late that when you are pushing a pram instead of a trolly you are limited to what you can purchase.  Later that night John let the name _Gabby_ slip in front of Sherlock.  There was a narrowing of eyes and an “I do believe that if you look on her birth certificate, you will find that her name is Gabriella, not _Gabby_.”  The name was sneered with disdain, but John wasn’t bothered.  He just replied with a mock serious, “Yes _William._ ” John knew that it would get a rise out of the man, currently folded up in his arm chair and rise he did.  Straight out of his chair, past John and into his room where he shut the door just a bit too loudly.

The noise startled Gabriella and she looked up from where she was rolling on the floor, to the direction of Sherlocks room with a frown on her face.  Some indiscernible sounds grumbled from her little mouth followed by a stream of drawl and John moved from his arm chair, down onto the floor next to her.

“I know exactly what you mean” he said, gently rolling her back on her back.  “He really does hate being pulled up on things like that.  You should see him when you bring up the solar system.”

Gabriella looked up at him with her tiny eyebrows raised, as if she thought him crazy before she broke out in a gummy grin and a little giggle left her mouth.  It was then that John spotted the white dot on her lower gum.

Reaching over he ran the pad of his finger over the bump, feeling the head of the small tooth.  “And about time, too” he smiled down at her and she smiled back at him and reached for his hand.

Day three brought a visit from Lestrade.  Apparently he had been popping in once a week, ever since Gabriella had come along, to make sure all was good in Baker Street.  Even after he had established that Sherlock wasn’t going to forget her or lose her or use her in an experiment he still kept on coming around.  Sherlock grumbled every time, but it was half hearted and Gabriella clearly enjoyed Gregs company.  John pushed aside the slight pull of jealousy as she gurgled and giggled at Greg as he tickled her belly.  He completely forgot about it when he walked past Greg and she reached out for John instead.

“Sorry I haven’t contacted you” John apologised as he put a cup of coffee on the side table next to Greg and plucked Gabriella from his arms.  “I still need to get a phone.  I guess it was too much to think that this one” and his head nodded towards where Sherlock was hunched over his microscope “would have let you know.”

Greg just shrugged as if to say, ‘ _You know how it is_ ’ and then asked “Where were you anyway?”

“Afghanistan” John answered, and there was the tinkle of broken glass coming from the kitchen where Sherlock had obviously dropped a slide.  It was the first time since Mycrofts visit that his absence had been outrightly mentioned.

“Are you fucking mad?” was Gregs incredulous reply, apparently not caring what was going on in the kitchen behind him. 

“Apparently, yes” John replied with a half grin and he settled into Sherlocks chair and bounced Gabriella gently on his lap, holding her so she was facing the rest of the room.

“Went over there with some old mates and helped in the hospitals as a civilian.  Not really the norm, but I knew someone who could pull some strings and I was busy and helpful.  Not a lot of time to dwell. Then last week I decided it was time to come home.”

“Enough sun, sand and bullets?” Lestrade asked in good humour.

John shook his head slowly.  “No.  Bill fucking Murray put a camel spider in my sleeping bag again and while I was yelling at him it occurred to me that I didn’t actually have to put up with that any more.  I could go home, so I did.”

“Well, about time too” Greg commented, lifting his coffee up and taking a sip.  “We all missed you around here.”

Again, neither man took notice of another slide breaking in the background.

 


	15. In which Sherlock considers Johns abnormally calm demeanour, John has a theory and they have a reoccurring conversation which John has actually never partaken in before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a really short one to set up for a conversation in a later chapter.

~~~~~~~~~~

Sherlock looked at the board in front of him, not really seeing anything.  He was still running through Johns admissions, to Garrett of all people, from earlier that evening.  For three days Sherlock had been nudging for information, not wanting to force anything out of John in case he was still…fragile was the word Mrs Hudson had used.  Sherlock was more likely to call it volatile, but either way, John was suspiciously calm, considering the way he normally overreacted to minor issues such as having his house sold, or finding out his best friend was shot by his ex (or not so ex) assassin wife.  Since returning, four days ago, John had been unusually calm and, dare he say it, happy, once Gabriella had started warming up to him.  Sherlock could still see what may be a hint of jealousy whenever the child wanted Sherlock over her father, such as at bedtimes or feeding times, but it was only ever just there and he soon got over it, so Sherlock had backed off with his questioning in order to prevent the inevitable eruption that was just waiting to happen, only it hadn’t happened yet and then in waltzed Lestrade, uninvited as usual, and asked straight out where John has been these past five and a half months and the doctor actually answered him, plain and simple.  Sherlock had read the information on Bill Murray.  He was a small time, freelance journalist who had spent a rather large amount of time in Iraq, Kosovo and Afghanistan over the past eighteen years covering the various wars.  Not someone who would have the pull to get John working as a civilian doctor so he certainly hadn’t expected ‘ _Afghanistan_ ’ to be the answer to Lestrades question.  Sherlock had been so shocked at hearing the answer that he had lost focus when adjusting the sight on his microscope and lowered it too far, shattering the slide he had prepared.

Then the DI went and announced that he, Sherlock, had missed John (not directly, but it was implied and that was enough) causing Sherlock to drop the slide he was preparing to replace the one he had not long before broken.  By that stage Sherlock had stepped away from the microscope lest he do any more damage and had stretched out on the couch, pretending to go into his mind palace while listening in on the two men chatter on about inane subjects, not really learning anything more.  Eventually Lestrade had left and the three residents of 221B were able to carry on with their nightly routine which had ended with Gabriella going to bed, courtesy of both he and John and John heading off for a shower, leaving Sherlock to try and focus his attention back to Moriarty.  

There had been movement in Ireland that had a small, but not meaningless link to the man who had taken up the empire that Sherlock had spent two years destroying.  Whispers and movement in the shadows pointing to that empire being rebuilt.

Sherlock was still staring at the bored, pictures uncovered now that small innocent eyes couldn’t view them, when John came out of the bathroom in his pyjamas, towelling off his hair as he stood next to Sherlock as he also looked at the board.  Sherlock refused to look at John, knowing that his hair would be sticking up in that way that made him look, quite frankly, adorable, and made himself focus on the evidence in front of him instead.

“So, is he back?” John asked after a moment of silence.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.  “We went over this after I got off the plane” Sherlock explained, trying hard not to sound exasperated.  “Moriarty is dead.  Hole in the back of the head.  There was a body, ID and the DNA matched up.  He’s not coming back from the dead John.  It is actually impossible.”

“Then, who is in these pictures.  They look a lot like…”

“I know what they look like” Sherlock all but snapped as he stared at the grainy photos.  The connecting factor in each photo was a person who looked a lot like the consulting criminal from four years before, but it was too hard to tell as every photo that they had was of poor quality.  

“It has to be a set up” Sherlock murmured.  “Not a single decent shot of him.  It is almost as if they were purposely planting dodgy quality pictures to try and trick us into believing that he has come back.”

“Maybe a brother - a twin maybe” John offered, ignoring Sherlocks musings.  Sherlock turned and frowned at John.  “We have been over this John.  It is never twins, John.”

“Nope.  I just thought of it then.”

“I distinctly remember having this conversation with you John.  There is no twin.  There is no record of any brother.  A sister, although she has yet to be found, but no other brother.”

“Maybe it was a secret twin, and I am telling you we have never had this conversation before, at least, not while I was present, although, what you prattle on about while I am not here is a completely different matter.”

Sherlock sniffed indignantly at being described as someone who _prattles_ and returned his attention back to the evidence bored.  “It is _never_ twins, John” he said, once again, and that was the end of that nonsense.


	16. In which there are red pants, nannies, John gets back in the game, Anderson solves a rather dull case & there are also sit ups.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello, all my lovely little readers! Just another quickie for you all and as always comments, con-crit and hugs are always welcome.
> 
> I hope you enjoy, are keeping warm and I wish you all a fabulous week!

~~~~~~~~~~

John pulled the blanket back over his head, trying valiantly to ignore the absolute tosser that was demanding he get up.  “Now John.”

“Go away Sherlock.  I’ve only been asleep for a few hours and it is your turn to look after Gabby tonight” he mumbled into the pillow.

The response he got was Sherlock grabbing onto the blanket and sheet and yanking until John was completely uncovered.  With an annoyed “Jesus, fuck…Sherlock!” John rolled over onto his back and sat up, glaring up at Sherlock and not caring that the only thing stopping him from being utterly naked in front of the other man was a pair of bright red boxer briefs.

“You have been asleep for four and three quarter hours, plenty enough for anyone to survive on, and there is a case, John.”

John looked at the clock and groaned.  It was only four thirty in the morning.  “What about Gabby?” John asked trying to reach for his blankets, but failing as Sherlocks long arms just pulled them back further.  “We can’t just leave her with Mrs Hudson at this quite frankly ridiculous hour.”  And he reached for the blankets again, again unsuccessfully, as now that his anger at being woken up was ebbing he was starting to feel rather conscious about his almost state of total undress.

“Sorted” Sherlock stated and then turned to walk away, trailing the blankets behind him until they disappeared over the end of the bed.  “And, John?” he said, turning back to John as he reached the door.  “Red is definitely your colour” and then with an almost evil looking smirk he stepped out of the room, shutting the door behind him as John felt his cheeks flush to something that resembled the colour of his pants.

Quickly, he pushed Sherlocks comment away and got up to look through his bag for something to wear.  This had been the first case that he had been on since he got back.  Since the whole Magnussen debacle to be honest, and who in the hell had Sherlock mustered up to watch Gabby.  If he had actually woken up Mrs Hudson at this hour, John was going to kill him.

Johns concerns were unfounded as, as he walked out of his room and into the kitchen, now decently attired, he found a woman standing at the sink, a recently woken Gabriella perched on her hip, her sleepy head tilted onto the newcomers shoulder.  

“Who are you?” John blurted and then realised that, despite the fact that a woman he had never met was holding his daughter, that was probably a bit rude, but what can one expect when at four thirty in the morning you come out to find a young woman, hair bleached blonde, shaved up one side, the other side curving to sit elegantly under her ear, is holding your offspring who should by all rights, still be asleep in her cot.

The woman turned around to face John and straight away he counted six piercings.  His eyes were then drawn to the woman’s…girls, eyes which were rimmed in black and blue eye make-up, her lips painted bright red.  Evidence of tattoos peaked out from under the collar of her top and snuck out from under the cuffs.  She was dressed, head to toe, in black.

“You must be Doctor Watson” she beamed and Gabriella babbled out a string of sleepy nonsense in Johns direction before burying her head into the woman’s shoulder again.

“Yeah, and I‘m sorry, but who are you?” he asked again, this time not so brashly.

“Mackenzie, Gabriella’s nanny” she answered, stepping forward and  holding out the hand that wasn’t anchoring the baby to her body.

John stepped forward and took her hand and shook it, his eyes on his daughter as she opened up her mouth to releases a yawn that seemed far too big for such a small person.

“Looks like this one needs to go back to bed” Mackenzie said, nodding down at Gabby before turning back to the sink.  When she turned back she had a bottle in her hand.  “Sherlock said that he would meet you downstairs and that breakfast would have to wait because someone called Anderson was going to ruin everything.”

Still feeling a bit sleepy John just nodded and went to turn towards the door.  He stopped, turned back and then leant down to place a soft kiss on his daughters head before straightening up again.  “Goodnight” he whispered and then headed downstairs to catch up with Sherlock.

~o~

“I don’t believe you woke me up at four thirty in the morning for that” John grumbled tiredly as they got out of the taxi, once again back at Baker Street, not even two hours after they had departed from the address.  

“Blame Gordon.  He woke me up first.” Sherlock muttered, more pissed off that he had been promised a good case only to find out that it was…that.

“It’s Greg and what in the hell was he thinking?  I could have solved that.”

“You probably would have if Anderson hadn’t done so before we even arrived.  Anderson, John!  It was that easy.”

“Apparently not that easy” John said.  “He didn’t actually realise that he had solved until you pointed it out to Greg, rather loudly” This caused John to chuckle.  “Did you see the look on Anderson’s face when you announced that the case was so much of a waste of your time that even Anderson had solved it.”

Sherlock grinned.  “I have never seen him look so proud.”

“To be fair, he’s not actually a cop.  It’s not his job to solve crimes, just to sort out the evidence that has been left behind and he has only been back in the game for seven months.”

“That only supports the reasoning over my frustration.  Someone, who is not a police officer and has recently suffered a mental breakdown, solved the damn thing before we had even arrived!”

“Well, I guess it will be an interesting re-opener for the blog.”

John didn’t miss the groan that left Sherlocks mouth as he stomped up the remaining steps and into their apartment.  When he followed the taller man in it was to see Mackenzie reading ‘ _Where is the green sheep?_ ’ to Gabriella, who was laying on a rug on the floor, kicking her legs as Mackenzie turned the page.

Once the story was finished Mackenzie got up and made her way to the door, sliding her coat on as she told John about their morning.  “Let him know I'm available for the next two weeks” she said tilting her head towards the kitchen, where Sherlock could be heard rattling about.

“Will do” John replied, still not sure how this set up with Mackenzie worked.

“Catch you next time Doctor Watson”  she said with a smile and headed off down the stairs, John calling out a farewell as she left.

When he turned back to go into the kitchen he was met with Sherlock, standing in the doorway, staring at something in the middle of the living room.  When he turned his head to follow Sherlocks gaze his eyes fell upon his daughter who was now sitting up and gnawing on the book that Mackenzie had just finished reading to her.

“Did you…?” 

“Nope.”

“So she…?”

“Yes, John.  It appears Gabriella has mastered the skill of sitting up on her own.”

For a few more seconds they stood and watched her chewing on the cardboard book, completely oblivious to the major milestone she had just completed.

“Now, maybe she will start talking” Sherlock mused quietly.

“Might possibly be a bit early for that” John said.

“Nonsense, John.  So far she has been early in every milestone.  I guarantee, within a month I will have her saying at least three words.”

John decided to leave it at that.  If Sherlock was determined to teach his daughter to talk, then John wasn’t going to stop him, but the truth of the matter was that she was a Watson, and Watsons’ were known for their stubbornness.  

If Gabriella didn’t want to talk, then she was not going to talk and all of Sherlocks hopes and expectations were not going to do a thing to change that.

 


	17. In which John gets a job, Sherlock has a sulk and Gabriella stands up for herself.

~~~~~~~~~~

“But, why John?”  he knew it sounded like whining and as much as he hated that it didn’t stop him, because he also hated the fact that John had gone out and got a job.  Again.  

“Because, Sherlock.  I have bills to pay and a child to support and in order to do that I need money and to be able to have money I need a job” John explained rather a bit too patiently.

“But you have a job” Sherlock pouted.  He didn’t miss the slightly frustrated sigh that John tried to muffle by running his hand over his face.

“No” he stated, still trying to stay calm as this was not the first time they had had this conversation since John announced, three weeks ago, that he was going to start looking for work.  “You have a job, one where most of the clients, and yes, I am talking about The Yard, don’t actually pay us and when we do get paying clients, you turn over half of them away.”

“Well, I can’t help it if they are boring, and besides, you have money.”

Sherlock noted that John didn’t even try and smother the proceeding sigh.  “Yes, Sherlock, I am aware I have money.  Money from the sale of my house that you and your brother orchestrated.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.  John really needed to get over that.  After all, it had been done for a perfectly sensible reason, but John paid him no attention and kept on talking.  “I can’t live off of that alone, despite the fact that you got a good deal on the sale.  If I keep pulling from that account then eventually I will have nothing left and I really don’t want to have nothing left as the last time I had nothing left I was broken and desperate and seriously thinking about ending it all right then and there.”

Sherlock winced.  He knew John had been suicidal when they had met, they had had the conversation before, but it still left a knotted feeling in his gut anytime it was brought up.

“But, you have Gabriella now.  You have m… you have her, and there is the trust set up in her name.  You know she will never go without, now or in the future.”  A feeling of relief washed over Sherlock when he saw that John hadn’t noticed his slip up.  _‘You have me’_ is what he was going to say, but that was not what John wanted to hear.  Contrary to what Mary believed, in the two months since John had returned he had shown no indication that he was interested in Sherlock _that way_.  Still, that seemed to be the wrong thing to say regardless as at Sherlocks words, John threw his hands up and turned, stomping into the kitchen.

“Fantastic” he cried, manoeuvring the kettle around with much more force than was usually used when preparing tea.  “I can sit back and let other people look after my daughter and provide for her, won’t that just be a fantastic role model for Gabby. ‘ _See that man there, he’s my dad_ ’” John ranted in a high pitched imitation of a young girls voice.  “‘ _and he sits back and lets other people provide for him and his family!_ ’ Sure why not, it’s all fine!”

Sherlock assumed this had something to do with pride and came to the conclusion that it would only make things worse if he were to point out how ridiculous it all was.  Instead he decided to let John violently make tea and get it out of his system in relative peace.  But the banging of mugs on counters and the slamming of fridge doors stopped and when John continued he was a lot calmer and had a sympathetic tone to his voice.

“Look, I understand that you think my work is an inconvenience but I don’t actually do it only as a form of income” he explained slowly, picking the  mugs up off of the counter and bringing them into the living room.  “I worked damn hard to become a doctor and I actually enjoy doing it, most of the time.  I’m good at it.”

Sherlock hated it when John had a valid point to argue with.  It was even worse when the point was a strong one, but the fact of the matter was that he enjoyed John’s company - not something he could say about anyone else, not really. 

Sherlock stared at the mug in front of him, desperately wracking his brain for an even stronger counter argument.  It never came.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.  You are just going to have to deal with the fact that I am working up at the hospital three days a week.”

At Johns statement and at the fact that he had not won the argument, Sherlock stood up from his arm chair and stomped over to the couch where he flopped down and closed his eyes with all intentions of ignoring everyone in the room.  He would have succeeded to, had he not felt a tiny tug on the sleeve of his arm.  At first he ignored it, pulling his arm away from whatever his shirt had caught on, ignoring Johns “Umm, Sherlock.”

Then there was another tug and something small pushed against his elbow.  He angled his head down and went to glare at whatever was obviously sticking up from between the couch cushions but the glare fell away when his eyes caught sight of Gabriella, standing up against the edge of the couch and once again, reaching for his elbow.  She looked up at him and smiled and Sherlock couldn’t help but smile back.

“Look at you, you clever thing” he praised and her smile grew even wider.  Sherlock sat up and looked to John, who was watching his daughter with a fond smile on his face as Gabriella moved her grip on the edge of the couch to hold onto Sherlocks knee.  

“Standing” Sherlock stated, even though it was unnecessary.  

“I can see” John replied, still watching as Gabriella started bouncing up and down.  “It won’t be long before she is doing that without help, and then she will be walking and then climbing and…oh, God.  I can just see it now.  She is going to be one of those kids that never stops and is in to everything.  I used to see them all the time at work.  Objects stuck in one orifice or another, broken arms, ingestion of poisonous substances.” At this his gaze left the baby, now chewing on Sherlocks knee and he looked up to Sherlock, his eyes wide with worry.  “You won’t be able to have anything in the flat.  No more chemicals or poison dart frogs.  That bloody canister of liquid nitrogen will have to go…”

“Now you are just being ridiculous, John” Sherlock cut in before the smaller man completely stripped Sherlocks life of anything even remotely interesting.  “She will be fine.  If she is anything like you, which her current measurements dictate she will be, she will be too short to reach the top shelves in the kitchen, where most of my things are stored anyway.”

At this the worried look left John’s face and a barely concealed grin took its place.  “Up yours, you bloody giraffe” he laughed, but it had done the job.  John was no longer worried and he snapped open the paper that was sitting in his lap.

“Nnn…nummm” Gabriella babbled, tugging on Sherlocks trousers.

“Yes, you dad worries too much, and I’m sorry, but you will be short like him” Sherlock said down to her, but she just grinned back up at him.

“D..daaa..” 

“Thats it, d..dad” Sherlock encouraged, pointing to John.

“Daaav-daff-num-noh” she squealed and then giggled, bouncing up and down, clutching onto Sherlocks knees for support.

Sherlocks felt the eager smile drop away as he flopped back onto the couch, careful not to unbalance the small child currently gripping onto him and drawling on his trousers.

“Just one word.  I will be happy with just one.”  

“Calm down, she is only six and a half months.  It is seriously nothing to be concerned about” John reassured, but it did nothing to abate his concern.

“But, John, she has been advanced in everything else so far - sitting, walking.  Even teething which she had no contr…”

“Sherlock” John laughed, placing his now empty mug on the coffee table.  “Trust me.  I spoke with one of the speech pathologists the last time we were hanging around the hospital, waiting on results.  He said it is all fine.  She is making sounds and reacts to certain words.  She. Is. Fine.”

Sherlock just looked down at the baby before him, not at all convinced. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a real shorty this time to show that I am still thinking of you all. Unfortunately work and uni are mental busy at the moment but I promise, things will start picking up in the next chapter!


	18. In which a case goes bad, the boys have a moment, Gabriella gets two dads and John gets Sherlock to go to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, another chapter because I love you guys, and I am pretty sure that a few of you have been waiting for this one for quite a while. Also, real life has awarded me a week and a half worth of hard studying to do, so I doubt that I will get much time to dedicate to this after tonight, so rather than leave it too long I thought I would get in early.
> 
> Hope you all enjoy and as always input of some form or another makes my world go round.

~~~~~~~~~~

John was fuming.  He was trying hard not to show he was fuming but only just managing to do a passable job at it. 

 The past two days had been a nightmare.  A case hadn’t gone well, Sherlock figuring out the location of a seventeen year old hostage five minutes too late, arriving after her ex-girlfriend had tied her up and slit her wrists, letting her bleed out slowly.  The killer was still eluding them. Sherlock had seen this as a massive failure on his behalf and had not spoken a word since leaving the crime scene.  Not on the walk to the main road, not in the taxi ride home and not on the short journey up to the stairs to their flat.  He had just laid on the couch, his back to the room, shutting everyone and everything out.  

That was until John had brought Gabby up from Mrs Hudson’s.  Gabby, who had quite quickly mastered the art of walking, since standing up for the first time two and half months ago, had babbled with delight (still not forming anything intelligible) once she spotted Sherlock and had toddled straight over to him, moving before John could stop her, and tugging on the back of his shirt trying to get his attention

John had expected one of two reactions.  Sherlock would either be lost in his mind palace and would not notice the feeble little tugs on his shirt or he would roll over and scoop Gabriella up in a massive hug.

What he didn’t expect was for Sherlock to sit up, almost knocking Gabby off balance and snarling at her to - _Leave. Him. Alone_.  He then stood up, oblivious or uncaring to the baby’s bottom lip trembling and dropping a mile and stormed out of the room and into the bathroom.  At the slamming of the bathroom door Gabriell’s lip finally stopped trembling and she opened up her mouth and let out a mournful wail, tiny tears running down her cheeks.

John had instantly picked up his daughter and comforted her, silently cursing Sherlocks name the whole time. 

 John understood that the case had been intense, even right at the beginning.  John understood that the outcome was devastating, and although he didn’t agree, he could see how the detective might blame himself.  John understood that the man was exhausted, both physically and mentally - John felt the same way, but what he could not understand, nor tolerate, was how Sherlock could find it even slightly acceptable to take all of that out on Gabriella.

Deciding that he needed to have words with the other man, John took the now calmed, if not happy, child downstairs and begged another - brief - babysitting favour off of Mrs Hudson.  She had been more than happy to do so, offering to take her for a visit to the corner store and John had helped her get the pram outside before heading back upstairs.

When he entered the living room Sherlock was out of the bathroom and shrugging into his coat, obviously preparing to head out somewhere.  John didn’t care.  Whatever Sherlock’s plans were they could wait.  He had something to say and damned if the idiot before him wasn’t going to listen to every word he had.

“Do you want to explain what that was about?” John asked, trying very hard to keep his voice patient.

“That, John, was me not wanting to have to coddle your daughter” was the response John got as Sherlock placed his wallet in the pocket of his coat.  John could almost taste the acid in Sherlocks words but he refused to let Sherlock see how much it affected him.

“Coddling?” he asked, unable to stop his patience waning, just a bit.  “She hasn’t seen you in two days and comes to you for a cuddle, because that is how you have always greeted her in the past eight and a bit months and you have now just decided that that is coddling her?”

“Yes, well, all indulgences must end sooner or later and now would be an ideal time for her to learn that the world isn’t all rainbows and cuddles.”

“For god sake, Sherlock, she is ten months old” John practically yelled, frustrated that Sherlock was acting like such a bloody child.  “You can’t just push her away like that.”

“Sooner or later I push everyone away” Sherlock snarled.  “Why would you think that Gabriella would be any different.”

Without even thinking about what he was saying, John snapped “Because, Sherlock, you are her father, that’s why.”

The sudden silence in the room was a bit of a shock after all of the noise that proceeded it and the full impact of what John had just yelled hit him hard.  Judging by the look on Sherlocks face it was having a similar effect on him also.

“I’mmmm…?”

John swallowed as he watched Sherlock flounder for words.  This had only happened a couple of times in the past and it always unsettled John a bit that the man who had every known word in at least five different languages, and then a few extras, stored away in his head couldn’t articulate a full, meaningful sentence.  And then there was also the small part of his brain that found it endearingly amusing.

“But, your…I’m her…father?”

“Well, unless of course you don’t want to be, that’s fine” John rushed out.  “But you are just as familiar to her as I am, if not, more so and you treat her like she is your own and you love her like she is your own, I just assumed that…but like I said, it’s all fine if you don’t…”

“NO.  I mean, yes  but we’re not…” and his hand sort of flapped between the two of them indicating, John assumed, that they were not romantically attached and John almost blurted out ‘ _but we could be_ ’ and then realised that Sherlock hadn’t shown any interest whatsoever, since he returned, or since forever, in a romantic relationship with John, despite what Mary, and apparently everyone else thought.  So instead of making a big deal out of it he just shrugged.  

“It’s not like we live a conventional life any way.  Why should this be any different?”

Sherlocks brow furrowed as he thought about Johns words and then his face relaxed into thoughtful acceptance and then he turned and walked out of the room, his coat flaring out behind him, and into his bedroom where he shut the door with a quiet _snick_ and John realised that, while they had defined their exact roles in Gabriella’s life, he still had no idea what they were in each others life.

~o~

It wasn’t until later in the evening, after John and Gabby had had dinner and the latter had been put to bed, that Sherlock reappeared from his room where he suddenly appeared behind John, causing the smaller man to jump, almost dropping his book at the unexpected presence of a second person in the room.

“What if we were?” Sherlock asked quietly.

After trying to cover the fact that he had been startled by Sherlocks silent appearance John craned his neck around and looked up from where he was sitting in his chair to where Sherlock was standing behind him.

“What if we were what?” John asked his brain too busy trying to settle his nerves completely from his minor fright to be able to decipher a meaning out of Sherlocks rather random question.

“You know…” Sherlock answered and his hand slowly moved between himself and John and John instantly remembered when he had done it earlier in the day, indicating that they were not in a relationship with each other.  John swallowed at the new meaning that the simple, yet vague gesture was getting at.

“What if we were together, like…that?”

John tucked his book in between the couch and the cushion and stood up, facing Sherlock, his chair the only thing between them.

“Then Gabby would still have two fathers” John answered, because he couldn’t bring himself to say that he would be a very happy man that they were like that, because even though it sounded like Sherlock were proposing that they move their relationship from platonic friends who alternated bed privileges to romantic partners who shared bed privileges, he may very well be proposing something entirely different, and John didn’t want to get his hopes up too much.

Sherlock half turned and took a small step away from the chair.  “And you would be okay with that?” Sherlock asked, still unnaturally quiet as he took a small shuffle forward. 

“If we were in a relationship?” John clarified and Sherlock nodded once.  John stepped towards Sherlock not hesitating in giving his answer.  “I would.”

“But, you’re not gay” Sherlock pointed out.

John reached out a gently grabbed Sherlocks hand.  “And you don’t do relationships” he responded.  John watched as a frown took over Sherlocks face.

“I’m not an easy person to live with, let alone be anything more involved with” he said and John chuckled quietly.

“Yeah, I know what you’re like Sherlock, and do you honestly think I’m without fault.”

Something on Sherlocks face lifted at that comment and he cocked his head to the side, as if thinking, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.  “You’re right.  It would mean a life time of awful blog entries and complaining about mice tails in the bathroom sink.”

“Oi, my blog entries aren’t awful” John returned in mock offence and then he realised what Sherlock had said.  “The rest of your life?”

“Of course, John.”

John smiled.  He couldn’t help himself.  It wasn’t a great big goofy smile, but he still couldn’t have stopped if he tried.  Sherlock wanted forever.  With John.  The rest of their lives.  That was something that John could definitely agree to, and he was about to say so when Sherlock leant forward, just a bit.

“Do you mind if I…”

“Not at all” John answered and Sherlock leant the rest of the way, John meeting him at the end, their lips coming together gently.

There were no fireworks or sudden waves of lust rioting through his body.  There was no hands grabbing and tugging, there was no clashing of teeth or biting of lips.  It was just two pairs of lips, pressed against each other, a faint hint of Sherlocks tongue tracing the seam of Johns lips before disappearing back into his own mouth.  There was hands gently placed on hips as they moved closer to each other.  There was a break, where they barely pulled apart, just for a second before they repeated it all over again and then it was Sherlocks forehead resting against John’s as they looked each other in the eye.

“What now?” Sherlock asked quietly, barely above a whisper.

“Now, I’m tired” John answered honestly, feeling the last fifty-three hours settling on him.  “It has been a long two days.  Now, we need to go to bed.”

And John wasn’t at all surprised to find that that very action was so very simple.  Without another word the two of them moved from the living room and up the hallway.  They took turns using the bathroom and changed into their pyjamas before quietly sliding into bed, John on the left and Sherlock in the middle.  Despite the fact that on two other occasions, during cases, they had shared a bed, one would have thought that this time would have been a bit awkward but it wasn’t.  It was easy, as if it should have always been this way, and maybe it should have, but now was not the time to dwell on what hadn’t happened.  Now John could look forward to what was happening.  But first, he needed sleep.

He lay on his side, facing Sherlock and it wasn’t even a minute that passed before he felt the other mans long fingers tentatively wrap around his.   “Is this okay?” he heard whispered in the dark.

John responded by tightening the grip and shuffling a bit closer to Sherlock and then Sherlock started to speak again.

“If it’s not I can…”

“Sherlock” John cut in quietly.

“What?”

“Go to sleep.”

“But I am still in the middle of a case.”

“It will still be there when you wake up in the morning.”

“But…”

“Just, go to sleep Sherlock.”

When John woke the following morning, it was to find that Sherlock had spread his entire six foot form across the bed, using John as human sized pillow.  He decided that he was happy to stay that way for a bit longer, while the other man quietly slept on.


	19. In which Sherlock and John get interrupted, go on a date and don’t get interrupted, find themselves without a baby and get reacquainted with a very unwanted ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a happy day it is….final assignment for the semester submitted and a brand new chapter finalised and ready to go! And, because of this chapter our story has gone from M to E. Sorry, but not sorry, but seriously, it was bound to crop up sooner or later!!!
> 
> As always kudos, comments, con-crit, suggestion and hugs are welcome. Hope you all enjoy!

~~~~~~~~~~

John was awoken by the feeling of a nose nuzzling against his neck and warm, humid breath ghosting over his shoulder.  Judging by the grey filtering through his closed eyelids it was still quite early in the morning.

“Six-oh-three” a deep, still sleepy voice murmured in his ear and then there was moisture on his neck as two lips pushed against the skin.

“Hmmm?” John asked, still trapped somewhere in the world of slumber while enjoying being pulled into the world of the waking.

“You were wondering how early it was” Sherlock answered and then his lips continued to nibble across Johns collar bone.

“We only got to bed three hours ago” John pointed out, but to be honest, he didn’t really care. 

It had been ages since they had had any uninterrupted time to themselves so being woken up in this fashion, despite only having a few hours sleep after being on a case for four days, was actually quite pleasing.

“Mmm, I know” Sherlock responded, manoeuvring his body so he was over John, kneeling between his thighs, his mouth moving down John’s chest.  “And Gabriella is due to wake up in half an hour so I suggest we use the next twenty-seven minutes to our best advantage.”

John fully agreed and to support this notion he threaded the fingers of one hand through Sherlocks hair as the man moved his mouth to one of Johns nipples and sucked it between his lips.  A small moan sounded in the back of John’s throat and he gave his partners hair a gentle tug.

Three and a half months they had been in this new phase of their relationship and the feeling of any part of Sherlocks body against his own never seemed to get old.  That was also partly due to the fact that in those fourteen weeks they managed to get one, possibly two nights alone a week - if that - between work, cases and the baby.  Then there was that entire week that Sherlock was down with the flu and although John did admire the other man’s determination at wanting to try and continue the physical side of their relationship, John just couldn’t find a runny nose, constant coughing and pained whimpers every time Sherlock made any more noise than a whisper, a turn on.  So, the two of them were, in earnest, still learning the others body; what they liked to have done to them, what they liked to do to the other, what noises they made, what their boundaries were, so when Sherlock woke John up, far too early with morning sex in mind, John was definitely going to encourage the man.

Sherlocks mouth came back up to find Johns as Johns hands dipped beneath the silk that was covering Sherlocks rather wonderful arse and he found himself with two handfuls of said wonderful arse.

“John, you are….”  John never found out what he was for at that very moment their heavy breathing and sloppy kissing and uncoordinated rutting was interrupted by the baby monitor gurgling out a string of happy babbles.

Sherlocks forehead pressed against Johns as both men laid still and quiet, somehow hoping that by not moving or making any noise, the baby would go back to sleep. 

No such luck.

Another string of unintelligible gurgles streamed through the monitor, punctuated by a high-pitched giggle.

“Maybe we can make it even quicker” John whispered, still acting as if he were too loud the baby might hear him.  He could see Sherlock thinking the idea through, then he looked down between their bodies, back up at John and nodded, bringing his mouth down to Johns in a bruising kiss and his hand between them, trying to push material out of the way from where it was hindering the process of climax.  John rushed his hands to help and just as Sherlock had wrapped his long fingers around the both of them, they both came to a screeching halt as the room filled with a high-pitched squeal and another giggle.

John inhaled deeply and calmly as a frustrated grunt left Sherlocks mouth, his head dropping back against Johns.

“This isn’t going to work” Sherlock stated, blank resignation setting in.

“No, it’s really not” John agreed.

“We should get up before she starts demanding attention” Sherlock suggested simply.

“Yes, we really should” was Johns reply.

There was silence for a brief moment where nobody moved or made a noise but when the room was once again filled with gleeful gurgling and giggling Sherlock unwrapped his hand from around their now wilting erections and rolled off of John, making his way into the bathroom.

John lay in bed as he listened to Sherlock carry out his morning ablutions in the bathroom as he looked up at the ceiling.  “Ten minutes” he said to himself quietly.  “That is all we wanted.  Ten minutes.”

As if voicing her opinion about Johns lamenting Gabriella let out a series of growled vowels over the intercom and John took that as his cue to also get out of bed.

“She’s growling” John warned as he entered the bathroom, just as Sherlock was washing his hands.

They both knew what that meant.  Soon it would be whimpering, then crying and then screaming.  Once she got to that stage it was up to John to calm her down.  If Sherlock even tried, she just grabbed fist full’s of his hair and pulled.  Hard.

Sherlock just let out an all knowing ‘ _hmmph_ ’ and left the bathroom to go and get their daughter.

~o~

“Did you know that, on average, new couples have sex five to six times a week.”

John looked up from where Sherlock was standing in front of the evidence board, gazing at a new report that had been delivered by one of Mycrofts men a few hours ago.  Despite it being after lunch, the lazy git was still in his pyjamas.  “We don’t even do that in a month.”

“It’s not that bad” John muttered then tried to think back to the last time they had, actually, both received an orgasm as a result of the other person.

“Nine days ago” came Sherlocks answer, even though John hadn’t voiced his question.  “Just after the case with the green grocers…”

“War and Peas”  John interjected which only earned him a glare from Sherlock before he returned his gaze back to the ever growing information in front of him.

“Yes, well, as I was saying, it has been nine days since we have participated in mutual sexual gratification and that was only barely managed as not even two minutes after we had finished, Molly arrived to drop Gabriella off.”

John let out a groan and tiredly rubbed his hand over his face.  Sherlock was right.  Every relationship he had ventured into practically saw him spending the first forty-eight hours in bed.  When he and Mary had got together… Nope, he wasn’t thinking about that.  What he was thinking about was that it had taken them over a week into their relationship before they actually found time alone to move from a bit more than platonic to something more physical and as much as he would love nothing more that to go away for the weekend with just him and Sherlock, they couldn’t very well just dump Gabriella on one of their friends for a few nights, just so the two of them would have an excuse not to get dressed.

“I propose a date.”

John lifted his head from the palm of his hand and stared at Sherlock.  “A date?” he said, not a hundred percent sure if he and Sherlock had the same definition of what a date was.

“Yes, John, a date.  It’s where two people who like each other go out and have fun” Sherlock answered, his back still to the smaller man.

“Yeah, no, I know what a date is.  I do believe you are actually borrowing my words…”  
“Not the point, John.  Tonight.  You and I.  Date-y stuff.”

“ _Date-y stuff_?”

Finally Sherlock turned to face him.  “Well, I’ll leave that to you.  You’re the expert.”

John let that comment go, deciding there was a more important point to discuss.  “And how is a date going to help us have more time to have sex?”  Not that John was complaining.  Even just a few hours with Sherlock, no Gabby, no case, no falling asleep on each other, would be quite lovely, but that was not Sherlocks original gripe.

“That, John, you may leave to me.”

John studied the other man for a few moments, trying to figure out what that could possibly mean.  In the end he decided he didn’t want to know.  Instead all he said was, “Why do I get a feeling this is not going to end well.”

Sherlock replied by spreading his lips into a rather large, smug looking grin.

~o~

The date, so far, had gone rather well.  Mackenzie had arrived fifteen minutes early to watch Gabby so he and Sherlock had decided to walk to the restaurant, which was not too far from the flat.  The main meal had been nice and quiet and followed by a shared chocolate and raspberry torte’.  After that they spent twenty minutes at the Natural History Museum where Sherlock verbally eviscerated the _Crime Scene Live_ exhibition.  The two of them had collapsed against the wall in a fit of giggles after being escorted off of the premises by security.

After walking the streets for a bit, chatting aimlessly and looking at the christmas decorations that were in the shop windows, they came across a small coffee shop, tucked away from the main road, and enjoyed flavoured coffees before they slowly made their way back around to Hyde Park.

“In 1929 a man, Robert Williams, killed a woman here, claiming that some movie had sent him temporarily insane.  Slit her throat.”  Sherlock said, leaning against a giant green and bronze bird, the low light giving more definition to his already angular face.

“And somehow, that hasn’t dampened the mood of our evening, at all” John grinned stepping up to him.

“I must say, John.  You truely have planned a rather pleasant evening.”  Sherlocks hands reached under Johns jacket and rested on his hips, pulling him closer.  John didn’t resist.  

“I’m glad you enjoyed yourself” he said quietly, letting Sherlock gently brush his lips over his own.  

“So, I carried out my part of the evening” John stated, returning the kiss.  “Do you mind telling me when we are getting to yours?”

Sherlock deepened the kiss and his hands moved back around to Johns arse and pulled him in closer.  “I think now would be a perfectly good time for me to carry out my end of the deal.”

John pulled his head back and looked around.  Sure, it was late and dark, but there were still people in the park.  Not where they were, but there was nothing stopping them from suddenly being where they were.

“But we’re in…”

“Yes, John, we are in public, but your semi-erect penis and the way you react any time we get a little more enthusiastic in our limited public displays of affection indicate that you are somewhat of an exhibitionist.  I dare say, you always have been.”

John looked back on some of the various sexual activities he had carried out with other partners; A hand job behind the gym at high school; a blow job in the library at uni; a quick fuck in his girlfriends kitchen, when he was nineteen, while her parents were only a room away watching East Enders, just to name a few places and all of them were highly memorable experiences for all the right reasons.  _Holy crap_.  He did have a bit of a thing for places where he could get caught.

“So, now that we have established that the venue is of no concern, do you think we might actually begin the activities, as, as I am sure you have noticed, I am feeling rather aroused right about now.”

There was no denying that.  The evidence of said arousal was digging into John’s hip.  

John pressed his lips against Sherlocks once more, pushing his tongue past the other mans lips, where Sherlock proceeded to suck on the muscle while Johns hands made quick work of the fastenings on Sherlocks trousers.  Sherlock released Johns tongue and let out a deep, rumbling moan when Johns hand slipped inside his pants and wrapped around his very interested penis.  John just grinned as he sucked Sherlocks bottom lip into his mouth and released it before gently sinking to his knees.

John continued to stroke and squeeze Sherlocks erection, bringing it to full hardness, with one hand while his other hand tugged down his trousers and pants so they sat around his knees and Sherlock leaned further back against the statue, which caused his pelvis to thrust out slightly, closer to Johns face.

“God, you’re gorgeous” John whispered reverently as he looked up at Sherlock.  The man had his head pushed back against the bronze statue, biting his lips while his unfocused eyes looked wildly up at something in the distance.  His chest was heaving with the exertion of trying not to openly pant out loud and his fists were clenched at his sides.  Since they had started this thing between them, John had only performed this activity twice, and both times had sent Sherlock off like a rocket.  “Don’t hold back” he offered before using his hand to guide Sherlocks cock to his mouth and he sucked the soft, velvety head into his mouth, using his tongue to add extra stimulation and the reaction was instantaneous.  Sherlock bucked forward a low cry leaving his mouth as one of his hands came up to firmly rest on Johns head.

John continued to work his lips and tongue over the head of Sherlocks cock, listening to and relishing in all the whimpers and bitten off cries that were coming from the normally composed man above him.  That fact that he could reduce such a self controlled person to such a state of near desperation did marvellous things to John’s ego and he slid his lips further down the shaft.

“Johhhhn” Sherlock groaned and his hips picked up a small, but consistent thrust.  John hummed around the length that was filling his mouth and was pleased to hear the stuttering gasp that left the other mans mouth, so he did it again.

“ _JohnJohnJohnJohn_ ” Sherlock started chanting over and over again, in a frantic sort of whisper as his thrusts started to get a bit quicker.  John knew that the man was close and, bringing his hand up to fondle Sherlocks balls, he slid the rest of the way down Sherlocks length, taking him all the way into the back of his throat, until his nose was nestled in the nest of dark curls at the base of Sherlocks cock.

Sherlocks quiet chanting turned into slightly louder moaning and then became a mixture of gasps and moans as John moved the hand on Sherlocks testicles further back, so his finger was tracing back and forth over Sherlocks perineum.  John continued this, while pulling his mouth back up Sherlocks cock and focused on the head again, before once more going all the way back down, and this time when the head hit the back of his throat he pushed his finger back further and breached Sherlocks hole, just an inch or so, and swallowed hard around the cock that was in his throat.  

Several things happened at once.  Sherlocks grip on Johns hair became almost unbearably painful; Johns name was ripped from his mouth so loud that it echoed across the lake behind them and Sherlock thrust forward, hard, almost causing John to choke on the semen that was violently spurting down his throat and filling up his mouth as Sherlock subconsciously pulled back and thrust back in, thankfully not as hard as the first time.

John softened his suckling until Sherlock had completely spent himself and then, licking him clean, he pulled off of Sherlocks softening penis and tucked him away, pulling up his pants and trousers and making him look respectable again.  Well, as respectable as someone who looked blissfully fucked could look.

“John” Sherlock moaned again, as John stood up and leant in to kiss the man.  Sherlock was happy to return the gesture, thrusting his tongue into Johns mouth, licking at every surface he could, tasting himself in Johns mouth and John couldn’t stop the moan that the action provoked, causing his own erection to twitch painfully in his trousers.  Thankfully, Sherlock was still coherent enough to be attuned to Johns needs as well and John found himself unexpectedly manhandled backwards until he felt the edge of the hard bench dig into the back of his knees, all the while, Sherlocks tongue had not stopped exploring his mouth.  John dropped down onto the bench,  a dissatisfied growl leaving Sherlocks mouth as Johns mouth abruptly pulled away from his, but instead of following John down to continue the kiss, he instead followed down and started mouth at Johns clothed cock, while his dexterous fingers undid Johns belt and trousers.  John went to lift his hips, but Sherlock had other ideas, instead just opening up the front placket of the trousers and pulling the front of Johns pants down far enough to sit under his balls.  It was uncomfortable but John didn’t have long to dwell on that for as soon as he was exposed Sherlock was on him, swallowing him down in one swift go.

“Jesus… _fuck_ …” he yelped as he felt the tip of his cock hit the back of Sherlocks throat and John knew that this was not going to take long at all.  Sherlocks lips moved up and down along his shaft in strong, slow sucks for several moments before being replaced by fast shallow movements, his tongue paying attention to the crown, before slowing down to cover the entire length once again.  John felt his breathing increase and become heavier as something tight coiled in his lower gut, get tighter and stronger the more Sherlock alternated his movements. 

“Sh…Sherlock” he stuttered, moving his hand to rest on Sherlocks head, and Sherlock placed his hand on Johns and squeezed.  John knew what he wanted and he curled his fingers, tugging on the curls that had slipped between the digits.  “Fuck” he moaned and thrust his hips up as Sherlocks head pushed down.  Before long Sherlock was taking long, fast pulls on Johns cock, his lips tightening in all the right places, his tongue licking up along the vein on the underside of his cock and Johns breathing was no longer in his control.  He panted and whined and before long he was trying to stutter out a warning, that just wouldn’t form.  Instead a stream of unintelligible babble left his mouth but Sherlock seemed to understand as he moved down Johns cock as far as he could and tightened his throat, swallowing around John, and John lost it.  With a high pitched, yet throaty moan he came down Sherlocks throat, his hips bucking with each stream that came out of him, and Sherlock swallowed every drop.  Finally Sherlock pulled off of John and stayed kneeling, his cheek resting on Johns thigh as the two of them calmed down, their sweat covered skin cooling in the winter air.

“We should probably get up and move on” John suggested quietly, not really sure if his boneless legs would actually let him stand up, let alone carry him away.  Sherlock replied with a lazy “Hmmm.”

They stayed that way for another minute or so before Sherlock finally roused and slowly stood up, helping John to do the same and tucking him away.  Once John was completely dressed again Sherlock leaned down and John marvelled, once again, that he got to do this.  He got to feel the anticipation of Sherlocks lips on his and he got to return the sentiment.  To him this - this slow, lazy kiss - was far more intimate than the acts they had just carried out.  This was what made John smile at odd times during the day, for no reason at all.  The thought that all of this was his, and as Sherlock wrapped his arms around him, John thought that his life was good.  He truely was the luckiest man alive.

~o~

John stopped Sherlock on the first landing, pulling him in close and kissing him once more before the bubble they had built around just the two of them was burst by the reality of home life.  The quiet sounds of the TV playing were the only thing that could be heard as the two of them stood there, holding each other close, gently nibbling and sucking on lips.  It had been a good night, and although John loved his life, and the people in it, he only wished that just John&Sherlock could last just a bit longer.

“We should really relieve Mackenzie of her babysitting duties” John murmured after another minute of gentle snogging.

“Hmm” Sherlock agreed, but it was far from enthusiastic.

Reluctantly the two of them pulled apart and made their way into the living room.  What they found instantly shattered the euphoric peace that had settled over them throughout the evening.  

Laying in the middle of the living room floor was Mackenzie, completely unresponsive with a lump to the head that was clearly noticeable even from where John stood.  Instantly he and Sherlock went seperate ways, John towards the girl on the floor and Sherlock, upstairs to get Gabriella.  

John was on his phone, getting an ambulance when Sherlock came downstairs, tearing through the flat to the back of the apartment.  When he came back from their room he announced frantically “Gabriella’s gone.”

~o~

The ambulance had arrived and taken Mackenzie, who had regained consciousness, to the hospital.  The police (Lestrade) had been called and an investigation was underway into locating their daughter.  Mrs Hudson had had to be escorted back to her flat by Lestrade as he was the only one who would not arrest her for the contents of her ‘ _soothers_ ’, which she was in need of, distressed that she had not heard a thing the whole evening, apart from the telly, once Gabriella had been put to bed not even two hours before the boys got home.  John paced back and forth across the living room floor while Sherlock was talking to Mycroft on the phone, demanding that his brother divert all CCTV footage surrounding their flat in the past twenty-four hours to Sherlock immediately.

It was as Sherlock hung up the phone when the message came through.  Sherlocks phone beeped five descending notes and the screen lit up.  With a frown he opened up the message and the frown, which was one of confusion, turned into one of anger.  John went to his side and looked at the screen.  The message was from an unknown number.

**You and Johnny boy.**

**Level 21, 23 Churchill Place**

**Don’t tell anyone and no funny business.**

Attached was a photo of Gabriella’s bee.

~o~

The elevator chimed elegantly and the doors slid open.  Both John and Sherlock stepped out into the darkened hallway.  Sherlock shoved his hands deep into his pocket while John patted his lower back, the shape of his gun under his hand sending a small ripple of reassurance through his body.

Looking left and then right it turned out that it wasn’t going to take a genius to figure out what way they had to go.  The entire floor was shrouded in darkness except for one strip of light shining through a frosted glass panel in the door at the end of the corridor to their right.

Without a word the two of them headed toward the door, knowing that this was more than likely one big trap, but neither cared.  All that mattered was some nut-job had their daughter, and that was not acceptable.

They stopped when they reached the door, not knowing what was behind it.  Both men looked at the other and with a slight inclination of Sherlocks head towards the door, and a nod of affirmation from John, Sherlock pushed open the door and they stepped into what appeared to be a large conference room.

The first thing that greeted them sent a larger ripple of relief through John.  Sitting on top of a rather flashy looking podium at the front of the room was a rather disgruntled looking Gabriella, clutching onto bee.  What John noticed next ripped away all of the reassurance John had built up since stepping out of the elevator.

 There, standing next to the podium, holding onto his daughter was a man who, according to Sherlock was most definitely 100% dead.  

“About time” came the sing-song voice of Jim Moriarty as he tightened his grip and slid Gabriella closer to his body.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some time this week I need to take my computer into the nerdy lovelies that fix things like retrieving files that somehow got deleted (I am talking 7 large folders worth of files). They can't guarantee how long they will need my computer for, as they have quite a back log going on, so I can't promise when I will get my next chapter up, so until then keep reading, writing and being awesome :D


	20. In which there are no ghosts, Sherlock remains calm, John turns out to be right, Gabriella finally has her say and Mary makes a well timed visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quickie, just to say I haven’t forgotten you all since our last chapter which was just a little bit of a cliffhanger.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Oh my god, Sherlock he has…” John’s shocked whisper was quiet enough for only Sherlock to hear but loud enough to convey that John was on the verge of panicking.  Not something that Sherlock was used to hearing, coming from the usually stoic soldier next to him.  
“I can see that, John” Sherlock whispered back, his eyes not moving from the crazed psychopath holding their daughter.  “Just keep calm.”

“What do you mean keep calm” John hissed back, a bit louder now.  That panic was creeping up a bit more.  “That fucking psychopath has our child.”

Just then a small child like giggle sounded out around the room.

“Why is she giggling?” Johns whisper went from panicked to mortified and Sherlock didn’t need to look at his face to see that his eyes had widened in shock.  It was practically audible.

“She apparently has her fathers liking for danger” he offered in return, hoping to lighten the mood.  It worked, only in getting John from shifting his mood from panicky to petulant, but it was better than nothing as far as Sherlock was concerned.

“Oh, so now that she has picked up a bad habit she is suddenly _my_ daughter.”

“Biologically speaking, yes, and I never said which father.  But should we maybe stay more focused on the _fucking psycho that has our child?_ ” Sherlock mimicked Johns words back to him.

“Si-co.”  Two syllables echoed in the room, high-pitched and cheery in the way that can only be achieved by a small child.  It was two syllables that stopped the two men in their tracks from advancing any closer to the source of the much welcomed sound.

“Did she just…?” John sputtered as Sherlock muttered, unbelievingly, “She just spoke?”

“Si-co” Gabriella repeated which was then punctuated by a rather innocuous giggle, the sound bouncing off of the walls.

“You taught her to say psycho?” John hissed furiously. 

Sherlock frowned to stop himself from smiling. “Not on intentionally.  And in my defence I was left unsupervised” he hissed back, trying to sound insulted, but there was that tell tale lift of the voice that indicated amused pride as well.

“Mor-tee” Gabriella sang and clapped her hands proudly at her own accomplishment.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me” John groaned, somewhat put out.  “She said his name before she said mine.” 

Another giggle sounded in the sparsely furnished cavern of a room followed by “Mor-tee.  Si-co.”

“At least she is observant” Sherlock quietly pointed out, as-a-matter-of-factly.

“ENOUGH!”  The familiar, mad, Irish shout rang out loudly, finally making itself noticed again in the room, bringing Sherlock and Johns bickering to a halt and causing Gabriella to grumble loudly in her usual baby banter.

Sherlock looked up to the man before them, still keeping his other senses trained on the baby next to him.  “And you are?”

“James Moriarty, duh.”

“You’re supposed to be dead” he explained to the man who was clearly _not_ even a little bit dead, but very much alive.

“No” the other man drawled thoughtfully.  “I’m supposed to be in Moldova, smoothing over some unfortunate bumps in a very important business deal.”

“But I saw you.  Several MI6 agents saw you.  Molly Hooper saw you.  You were most definitely dead and it was most definitely you.”

The new consulting criminal let out a disappointed sigh.  “No” he stated slowly.  “Clearly that was not me.  I think at some stage you may have confused me with my brother.”

“I told you” was Johns muttered reply, before Sherlock could answer.

“But you don’t have a brother” Sherlock said, ignoring Johns remark.  

“Let me guess.  You read my file?  Well, my brothers file at least.”

“There was no mention of a brother.”

“No, there wouldn’t have been.  When we were born, my father left with me and my mother kept Jim.  Apparently they thought it would be funny to give us the same name.”  He didn’t sound amused.

“See, _secret_ brother.  A _Twin_ even.  I was right” John whispered stubbornly, clearly trying to keep the anger from overriding the panic.

“I really don’t think now is the …”

“You just can’t admit that someone else was right and you were wrong.”

“Well, when I don’t have all of the information on hand it is pretty hard to give an accurate deduction.”

“Wish I had recorded that.  That’s as close as we are ever going to get to you admitting that you. Were. Wrong.”

“Fine, John, yes, I, Sherlock Holmes was wrong and should have listened to your bumbled wisdom all along.”

Their bickering was brought to a halt, once again, by the not-but-apparently-is Moriarty at the front of the room.  “Oh, for the love of God.  You’re like an old married couple, can you stop arguing for one minute and focus on me, since that is why we are all here today.”

The two men stopped and stared at Moriarty, as did Gabriella, all with similar frowns on their faces.

“Who in their right minds thought it would be a good idea to leave a baby with you two?”

The sound of the door swinging shut to their left announced a newcomer to the party and they all turned as they heard a familiar voice say “That would be me” and Gabriella let out a squeal of giggles as Mary stepped from the shadows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, did I do it again?!


	21. In which Moriarty states how things are going to work, Sherlock finally panics, Mycroft comes to the rescue and Sherlock becomes Jon.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Mary” Sherlock and John both stuttered.

“Boys” She smiled back at them and Sherlock could detect, just a hint of smugness and an even smaller amount of loss in her eyes.  She had figured out that they had finally taken her advice and that John was no longer hers.  Sherlock wanted to feel something for her, anything, but at that moment they had bigger things to worry about.  Like the man at the front of the room who still had their daughter.

“Adelina Arthursson, how nice of you to join the party” drawled Moriarty and the three of them directed their attention back to the front of the room.

“I see you’ve done your homework Jim” Mary replied.  (She would always be Mary.  He had decided this after reading the memory stick that she had given John.)

“And I see you haven’t” Moriarty replied.  Mary cocked a questioning eyebrow.  “My brother was Jim.  I can’t say I ever took to the name myself.  You can call me James.”  

“I can call you a lot of things but I assure you, James isn’t at the top of that list” Mary shot back, and Sherlock almost smiled at the sass that he had missed since she had walked out of their lives.

“Miss Arthursson, I suggest you be a bit more courteous, since I am the one who is currently holding your daughter.”

At the direct threat to Gabriella Sherlock’s spine straightened as his senses went on high alert, more so than usual, and out of the corner of his eye he saw Mary do the same.  John on the other hand hadn’t let his guard down once, except for their brief whispered squabble, since they had arrived at the office building.

“Although, you did give her up, so maybe that’s not such an issue” James taunted, a sly grin spreading across his lips.  Sherlock saw Mary wince and then open her mouth to say something, but James continued, not giving her a chance.

“Although, I do hear that these two” and his focus left Mary and turned towards John and Sherlock, the grin growing wider.  “Have become quite the domesticated couple, holed up together at Baker Street, playing happy families.  Tell me, which one is mum?”

“What ever it is you want, James, you have it” Sherlock promised, no longer willing to continue this ridiculous charade.  That psychopath still had their daughter and that had now gone beyond unacceptable.  “Just walk away from the baby.”

At those words, Moriarty just stepped closer to Gabriella, his hold tightening, eliciting a small squeak from her.  “I’m not asking for much, I promise” Moriarty told the three of them with what Sherlock assumed was a deluded killers version of puppy dog eyes.  “Just that you all stay out of my way, and that includes Mycroft too, while I get my little organisation, you know, the one that SHERLOCK TOOK DOWN…” At the man’s sudden shout, Sherlock observed Gabriella startle and an overwhelmed look take over her face, turning her frown into a look of uneasy surprise.  “…Back up and running to its full capacity again.  That’s all.  Quite simple really.”

“Delusional and arrogant, just like your brother” John sneered, finally breaking the silence which he had fallen into since Mary had entered the room and Sherlock could feel all of the anger John was radiating towards the man in just that one small sentence.  Apparently James Moriarty was unaware of the threat that came with that side of John.  Either that, or he just didn’t care.

“No, Jim was mad.  A bit crazy if you ask me”  James replied, the last part delivered in an over exaggerated whisper.

“What, and you’re not?” John scoffed, incredulity underlined with a large dose of anger in his tone.

Moriarty’s crazed playful seemed to disappear, quickly replaced with acute irritation.  “No.  I’m just a business man trying to make his way in the world, and unfortunately you” and at that, his glare singled in on Sherlock.  “Tore everything apart so now I have to work extra hard to put it all back together again.”

“And why would we let you do that?” In his peripheral vision Sherlock could see John’s fingers flexing, itching to go for his gun, but not yet certain that Gabriella was free from getting caught in the crossfire.

At Johns words, James let a sinister smile spread across his face and he turned to face from John to Gabriella.  “If you don’t stay out of my way” he cooed at the baby, but it was clear that the words were meant for John, Mary and Sherlock.  “This one will get a bullet.  Right. Here” and he punctuated the final word by poking Gabriella, hard, in the middle of the forehead.  At that action Gabriella started whimpering, her bottom lip dropping and shaking as she huffed in little gulps of air while tears pooled in her eyes.  At that sight alone the aloof calm that Sherlock had felt since receiving the text message earlier in the evening started to shudder.  He wasn’t sure what he would do if it actually cracked.

“I don’t play Jim’s games” James all but shouted as he turned his attention back to the three before him.  “I don’t make empty threats either, so I will be keeping this one until everything that you are your dear brother destroyed, Sherlock, is back to the way it was so I suggest you forget about me for a while, because the longer it takes me to get my network back up and running, the longer it will take you to get this one back.”  At the end of his sentence he hitched Gabriella off of the podium and held her against his hip, as Sherlock had done so many times, as he had seen John do on countless occasions and now it just looked so wrong.  Gabriella must have also thought it wrong for at that moment her small whimpers turned into outright wails and Sherlocks calm completely shattered and panic set in.  He had do something, but what?   His mind wasn’t working properly.  His family was being threatened and he didn’t know what to do.  Next to him he was mildly conscious of John reaching back for his gun, but before he could complete the action, Mary had stepped forward.

“I don’t think so” She announced and aimed the gun, that had been hanging loosely in her hand since she arrived, at James Moriarty’s head.  “Hand her over now.”

“ _Tsk, tsk_.  I don’t think so” James sang softly and suddenly there was a red light on Gabriella’s head, right over the spot that James had poked earlier.  A sick feeling ball of lead settled in Sherlocks stomach as the realisation that there was a sniper on the roof, aiming through the small strip of windows surrounding the top of the room.  It appeared that James was more like Jim than he believed.

Without a second though Mary threw the gun to the side, well out of reach, and held her hands to show she was no longer a threat.  

“You too, soldier boy” Moriarty taunted, his head tilting as he looked at John, mock sadness and disappointment brushing over his face.  John pulled his gun from the back of his jeans and threw it over with Mary’s and Sherlock was somewhat relieved to see the red dot disappear from Gabriella’s head.  There was also a suspicious little nagging voice in the back of his head trying to tell him that Moriarty had had pulled the threat back too soon, but he didn’t get time to dwell on that because James was suddenly speaking again.

“Well, it has been nice chatting with you all and I hope you have all conveyed your goodbyes, because it could take years for me to get back to where I was, but then I guess that is just incentive for you to stand back and let me work faster” the mad man sang and then James Moriarty hitched the sobbing Gabriella up higher onto his hip and turned to walk out of the room.  

He didn’t get very far when suddenly there was the sound of breaking glass and James collapsed in a heap on the floor, just in front of the door at the back of the room.

Gabriella let out a shriek of fear? Pain? Sherlock wasn’t sure and he wasted no time trying to decide, instead running over to her, John and Mary close on his heels

When he got there he looked down to see a hole in the back of Jim’s head.  Pulling the body over onto its back he picked up the now screaming Gabriella from the floor and handed her over to John to look for any injury, hoping that the small smears of blood on her grow suit were that of the dead mans while he looked at the body on the floor.  The bullet had gone through the skull, exiting through Moriarty’s left eye.  Sherlock looked up to see that it had lodged itself in the door frame, not even a meter away.  While Sherlock had inspected the body of the second Moriarty brother Mary had retrieved her gun and was surveying the area, looking for potential threats.

“You may lower your weapon” came the sound of Mycrofts voice and Sherlock looked up from James just in time to see his brother walk through the doors they had stepped through not so long ago, his umbrella swinging poncily in his hand, a smug, yet relieved look on his face.

Sherlock wasn’t sure he could handle the amount of relief that was surging through his body at that moment and he knew it needed an outlet.  Since hugging his brother was out of the question, for obvious reasons, (It was Mycroft for crying out loud), yelling was going to have to do.  “You could have hit Gabriella” Sherlock fumed, getting up from where he was kneeling next to the body.  “How could you possibly have known that that bullet would not have hit directly where it was supposed to?  How could you have taken that risk, Mycroft?”  Sherlock shrugged off Johns hand that was trying to pull him back from advancing on his brother, but Sherlock was too wired to not let something out of his system, and this was what came naturally, especially when his brother was concerned.

“I didn’t” Mycroft shrugged, somewhat empathetically.  “But I did trust  my man, whom I had on the roof, to know those things.  It is, after all, what he is paid for.”

Sherlock went to open his mouth to tell Mycroft exactly what he thought of his man, when both Sherlock and Mary placed a hand on each of his arms.  

“Sherlock” John calmly said his name, bringing his hand up to his cheek and directing his head to look at John.  “Look at her.  She’s fine.  It is all fine.  It’s over now.  You don’t have to worry anymore.  Just let it all go.”

Sherlock never knew how, in a world of no one understanding him, John always got him.  Always knew what he was thinking, at least when it came to emotions anyway.  

He looked from John to Gabriella, who had her head resting on Johns shoulder, sucking on her bottom lip, her eyes still puffy from her earlier bout of crying.

Gently, he reached out a hand and rested it on her head, smoothing down some of the curls that had been tousled in the nights proceedings.  

“Jon” She said, reaching her small hand out towards Sherlock.  “Jon.”

Smiling, Sherlock took Gabriella’s hand in his.  “She said your name” he mused, looking briefly up at John who was smiling down at their daughter and then he looked back at the small girl in his arms.  She was now holding out both arms to Sherlock.  “Jon Jon Jon” she cried and before she could start with the tears again, Sherlock plucked her from Johns arms and held her close.

“It appears, brother dear,that in Gabriella’s eyes, John’s name has become synonymous with yourself” his brother got in, sounding horribly amused. “What with you calling out to the man so often, it is not so surprising.”

“Why are you still here” Sherlock asked, frowning over his shoulder at his brother.  “Don’t you have countries to try and take over or empires to topple?”

A thoughtful look fell over Mycrofts face.  “No.  I don’t believe I do, at least not tonight” and he flashed a small smile at Sherlock.  Sherlock frowned again, but before he turned his attention back to the baby in his arms he threw his brother a thankful smile and Mycroft nodded, message received loud and clear.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No cliffhanger...yayy!
> 
> Gabby calling Sherlock Jon, is taken from a little bit of me, who used to call my dad by my mum's name because he said it so often that I thought it was his name. Or at least, that is the story my mum likes to tell. As far as embarrassing stories go, I suppose it's not a bad one. It could definitely be worse...


	22. In which John gets more than he bargained for, Sherlock gets jealous, Mycroft gets exasperated, Gabriella gets a mum again and Mary gets to say goodbye properly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Things were moving pretty steadily.  People had been in to remove the body of James Moriarty.  John could only assume that it would join that of his brother.  

Sherlock had finally felt calm enough to relinquish his hold on Gabby, who was now happily babbling in Mary’s arms, only to wrap his arms around John as they both watched the woman they never thought they would see again reacquaint herself with her daughter once more.

Everything that had happened, that was happening, was leaving John feeling confused.  What was going to happen now?  Moriarty was finally gone.  John was happy about that, no conflicting emotions there, but what did that mean for them?  Was Mary coming back for good and if so, would she want Gabby?  How was that going to affect him and Sherlock?  Would she expect John to go back to what they had before?  Surely not?  She had encouraged the progression of their relationship. But wasn’t that just going to be…strange?

John was pulled out his thoughts by Gabby giggling and then letting out a rather large yawn.  He watched as Mary placed a kiss on her daughters head and whispered words that John would never know and then she walked over to where John and Sherlock were standing. 

“Here you go” she said handing Gabby back to Sherlock and then looked to John.  “I’m going to steal John for a bit” she said to Sherlock, not looking at him and then tugged on Johns arm to pull him towards the back of the room without waiting for a response from Sherlock.

John followed, listening to the broken glass crunch under his feet.  They stopped near where Moriarty had been shot, and John couldn’t feel sorry to see small splatters of blood on the floor and walls.

“Thank you” Mary said and John was confused, pulled out of his thoughts of blood splatters and wondering where he now was in life’s grand scheme of things.  

“What?”

Mary smiled, that familiar one she had whenever John got lost mentally and took a while to catch up.  “For looking after her” Mary explained, nodding to where Gabby was pulling on the top button of Sherlocks shirt, not that he was noticing anything she was doing.  He was pretending not to watch what John and Mary were doing.  “And for finally making the both of you happy” she added on and John knew that she wasn’t talking about Gabby now.  “You are happy, aren’t you?”

John didn’t need to think about the answer and the word “Yes” was out of his mouth before he could think about how it would affect the woman next to him.  He was relieved to see a slow smile tug at her mouth.

“Good” she responded, giving his arm a brief squeeze.

A silence stretched between them, neither knowing what to do or what to say.  Eventually, it was John who spoke.  “So, are you here to stay now?” he asked his tone a bit hopeful, yet a bit worried as well and he instantly felt guilty for not being completely jubilant at the prospect of Gabby’s mother being in the picture full time.  He had built a good life in the months that she had been gone and a small part of him didn’t want that life disrupted.

Again, Mary smiled at him and a part of John ached to see that it wasn’t a happy smile.  “No” she said quietly.  “No, I’m still not safe for Gabriella to be around” she informed John.  “The people I had been hiding from, the reason I had forged a new identity, all know who Mary Watson is.  If I came back now I would be putting the lot of you in danger.”

“But you did come back.  Surely, you could…” John stopped when Mary slowly shook her head.

“I came back because I had word that Moriarty was in London” she explained.  “A place that he had been avoiding so far, according to my sources.”  John didn’t miss the way Mary’s gaze slightly diverted to Mycroft, who was not standing so far away pretending not to listen in on their conversation.  He was about as discreet as what Sherlock was being.

Mary turned so her back was to everyone else in the room and continued in a lower tone.  “I figured that if he had come back to London then he was after Sherlock.  That meant a potential direct threat to Gabriella.  I needed to warn him, you.  But by the time I was able to get a message to Baker Street Moriarty already had our daughter and you were already in a taxi on the way here.”

“Where will you go?” John asked, looking down at his feet briefly, only to look back up at Mary when she started talking again.

“Don’t know really” she said thoughtfully.  “I hear Bora Bora is nice this time of year.”

John knew she was bluffing.  Mary hated warmer weather.  She claimed anywhere that made you sweat without actually doing anything was a good reason not to be there but John let the lie go.  Obviously she didn’t want John to know where she was and John trusted that her reasons were good ones.

“When will you be leaving?” he asked.  Gabby’s birthday was in a month.  Maybe it would be possible for her to stay to see her daughter turn one.    
“Tonight” she said, dashing Johns thoughts and plans.  “As soon as I have briefed Mycroft of everything I know.”  The last part was said as she threw a cheeky grin over her shoulder, towards the older Holmes brother.  When John looked, Mycroft was studying a non-existent piece of grit under his immaculate nails.  

“Will you be back” John asked, his grin at catching out Mycroft eavesdropping falling away from his face, a frown slightly dipping his brow.  

Mary gave a half shrug.  “Oh, I don’t know.  When you least expect it I suppose.  After all, someone has to make sure you two don’t get into too much trouble.”

The frown lifted slightly from Johns face as a grim smile formed across his lips.  Despite all of his worrying over what Mary’s return would do to the life he had now set up for himself he felt bad that Mary was the one who had to leave everything behind.  Friends, a sense of belonging and stability, the daughter she carried for nine months yet only got to keep for five weeks.  It just didn’t seem right.

“John Watson” she warned, pulling John from his thoughts.  “Don’t you dare worry about me.  I am doing what I am good at, what I need to do to keep my family safe.  It is my choice John.  I could have taken Gabriella and made a new life for the two of us, but this is what feels right to me and will not leave with the last thing from you being pity, so chin up” and she levelled one of her dazzling smiles towards him.  “Besides.  I’ll never be too far away for too long.  You can’t get rid of me that easily.  Granted, you won’t know when I am around, but I will be there to help keep an eye on our daughter.  That is my gift to you for everything you have done for me, so if you and his nibs over there could not mess things up, it would be much appreciated, ta.”

The worry and guilt over Mary not being a part of their lives any more slowly drained away and he returned the smile that she was giving him.

John pulled Mary in for a hug, holding her close and tight.

“Goodbye Mary” he whispered, feeling her hands come up to wrap just as tightly around him.  “I promise to take care of Gabby.”

Mary squeezed him once more and then drew back.  “There is just one more thing” she said, looking past John’s shoulder to where he knew Sherlock was standing.

“Anything” John answered.

Without any warning, Mary surged forward, her hands grasping his waist, and slotted her lips against his own.  Completely unprepared for the attack, John gasped in surprise which Mary took as an invitation to slip her tongue into his mouth, just quickly before she pulled back.  

“Tell Sherlock he is a lucky man indeed” she smiled and walked away, leaving a stunned John to turn and watch her progression out of the room.

“I’ll be in contact” she called to the no-one in particular and then she faced Sherlock, her pace slowing.  “Bye Sherlock” she called over her shoulder and followed it up with a chuckle.  “Come on Mycroft.  I know you want to walk me out” and with that she sauntered through the doors and out of Johns life for nobody knew how long.

In half a dozen long strides, Sherlock was by Johns side, a disgruntled frown on his face, Gabby slung on his hip.  

“Mine” the taller man growled and leant down and unknowingly replicated the kiss that Mary had just placed on John’s lips, only this time, John happily reciprocated, a smug smile on his face.

“For crying out loud” Mycroft muttered as Sherlock pulled John to him even tighter and kissed him harder, replacing any trace of Mary with the taste and feel of his own lips.   “Can no-one conduct themselves with even a hint of decorum these days?”

Sherlock pulled away from John long enough to utter the words “Piss off, Mycroft” before reattaching his lips to Johns again, and John couldn’t stop the giggle that rose up his throat.

After a few more seconds the child on Sherlocks hip started complaining, her small hands pushing on the faces of the two men in front of her.  John pulled back and took stock of Sherlocks lips, red and puffy from kissing John, ruining the intensity of the frown still on his face.

“Come on, lets go home” he said, ready to see this night come to an end.  

The frown left Sherlocks face and was replaced with something that resembled contentment.  “Yes, lets” and together all three of them headed out of the building and into a taxi that would take them home, back to 221B Baker Street.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost at the end now. One more chapter to go after this. 
> 
> It has been great fun writing and you have all been truly wonderful readers!


	23. In which there are candles, cakes and cards and John and Sherlock get a bit sticky.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay ladies and gentlemen, one last chapter to wrap some things up. Well, really, it was just an excuse to squeeze in some last minute smut, but anyways, here it is, the end of our story (I could slot in some joke about reaching the end of our limits, but I will spare you all the bad pun!) and I would just like to say that you have all been fabulous. Thank you for your support, ideas and encouragement. Without it all I would not have enjoyed writing ‘Limits’ as much as I did, so big squishily hugs to you all!

~~~~~~~~~~

John placed the last of the toys in the toy box and slid the whole lot under the coffee table.  Heading back towards the kitchen he snagged a stray bit of pink wrapping paper along the way.

It had been a long, emotional day with a flat full of well wishes and a sugar-hyped child running around all day.  What had intended to be a small gathering consisting of themselves and Mrs hudson had somehow grown to include Molly, Greg, Mackenzie the Holmes parents and, much to Johns (and possibly everyone else’s) surprise, Mycroft.  Sherlock had a feeling Mummy was some how responsible but it was never actually confirmed.

In addition to the many presents that still sat on the coffee table, needing a home found for, a small parcel had arrived.  Inside was a birthday card with a simple “To Gabby.  M” written on the inside in a familiar neat script. Also inside the package was a turtle plushie, the words _Bora Bora_ Stitched across its shell in bright yellow and orange, along with a handful of photos.  The photos depicted a small, red, wrinkled baby, clearly just born, wrapped in a pink blanket with a little white cap on its head.  They were evidence of the first few weeks of Gabby’s life.  The time that she had to spend with her mum.  Ignoring the tears that had threaten to fall, John put the photos in a small box and placed them on the bookshelf.  One day, when she would understand, John would explain it all to Gabby, all about her mum, but until then, they would be tucked away safely.

Although the day had been draining, in  a pleasant way, and it had been crowded, John was pretty sure it had been a success, as far as first birthday parties went, but now, finally, it was just him and Sherlock.

In the kitchen, Sherlock was scraping the charred remains off of what was one of Gabby’s cakes to apply to a slide.  What John thought Sherlock was going to do with burnt cake and icing probably wasn’t worth thinking about.

“I would say that the day turned out rather well, wouldn’t you?” he said, coming up behind the man and wrapping his arms around his shoulders.

“John, the entire candle on my cake caught on fire, causing the rest of the cake to also go up in flames, rendering the entire thing inedible” Sherlock replied, pointedly looking down at the black mess on the kitchen table.

“Well, it’s a good thing that I had a cake too.”

“Only because you didn’t _trust_ me to actually bake our daughter a cake for her first birthday” the word trust was drawn out sarcastically.  “And besides, your candle didn’t light at all.”

A small grin stole over John’s mouth at the memory.  “Well then, it is most definitely a good thing, then, that Mrs Hudson didn’t trust either of us to get it right and brought her own cake for Gabby.”

“Definitely a good thing” Sherlock concurred.

John reached around Sherlock and broke off a piece of cake that hadn’t actually been scorched, popping it in his mouth.  “Bit smokey, but it’s actually not bad” he mused.

“I am perfectly capable of baking, John.  It is hardly rocket science.”

John broke another piece off and directed it towards Sherlocks mouth, missing and hitting his cheek instead.

John laughed at the indignant look on Sherlocks face as the cake left a chocolaty smear across his cheek.

“Here” he chuckled, swinging Sherlock around so he was facing him.  “Let me” and he leant over and slowly licked the cake from Sherlocks face.

“You did that on purpose” Sherlock grumbled.

John grinned against his cheek and slowly slid his lips across to kiss the pout off of the other mans mouth.  “No” he murmured against his lips.  “If I was going to do it on purpose then I would have done this” and without warning he pulled back and smashed another bit of cake against Sherlocks mouth, smearing it up and over his lips.

“John” Sherlock cried out, trying to pull away, but there was an unmistakable smile under the sweet, brown goop that contrasted beautifully with his pale skin.

“Shh” John laughed.  “You’ll wake up the baby” and he yanked Sherlock closer again and proceeded to lick the mess off of the other mans face.

It was ridiculous of John not to expect some form of retaliation, so when something cool and sticky was pushed up under his chin, dislodging his mouth from Sherlocks, he wasn’t expecting it and a small yelp of surprise left his mouth.  In retaliation, he scraped some of the cake off of his chin and went to go smear it on Sherlocks nose, only the man ducked and Johns sticky fingers ended up threading through his hair instead.

“John, _John_ ” Sherlock laughed, stepping back and grabbing Johns wrists before he could do any more damage.  “We should maybe take this somewhere more appropriate” and to emphasise his point he pulled two of Johns fingers into his mouth and sucked the left over cake off of the digits.

“I think the bedroom, definitely” John gulped, his pupils blown wide as he watched Sherlocks lips slide over his fingers.

“Definitely” Sherlock repeated in somewhat of a purr.

It didn’t take long for the two of them to reach the bedroom, stripping each other off once they were inside.  

Sherlock stepped up to John and nudged his head under Johns chin, licking off the remaining cake and a shiver made it’s way down John’s spine.  “You taste absolutely delectable” he murmured against Johns skin and all John could do in return was run his hands up Sherlocks sides and back down again, halting on his hips, eliciting a shiver of Sherlocks own.

Sherlock worked his mouth up Johns neck and over his chin until he found his mouth and John decided then and there that the foreplay had been drawn out long enough.  Without any warning he pushed against the other mans hips until he was falling back against the bed and John wasted no time scrambling over him.  After a bit of awkward scooting and rolling they were positioned up the top of the bed with John straddling Sherlocks waist.  

“You…in me…now” John panted against Sherlocks mouth and Sherlock wasted no time in reaching over and pulling the bottle of well used lube out of the draw.  Within seconds, John was muffling his groans against Sherlocks neck as the he felt the man’s long fingers press into him, stretching him open, brushing against his prostate, ever so lightly, every now and then.

“Now” he gasped, pushing up, sliding off of Sherlocks fingers and soon he was sinking down onto Sherlocks cock.  A whimper left Sherlock at the same time John groaned as he sunk all the way down.

Sherlock squeezed against Johns hips sparking him into moving.  The sound of wet skin moving against wet skin, of air being expelled in short, hard bursts, of choked off moans and whimpers filled the room as the two men in the bed slid and rutted and ground against each other.  

John’s name was chanted over and over again as he feltSherlocks rhythm become more frantic as he barrelled towards his orgasm.  John, in turn, was suddenly on the edge, just waiting to step over.  It was as Sherlocks fingers wrapped around his erection and started pumping it desperately that he finally felt himself falling and with a cry he climaxed, spilling over Sherlocks fist and onto his stomach.  With a deep, rumbled growl Sherlock arched up, bucking his body hard against John and came, the hand not wrapped around Johns cock, reaching up and grabbing him by the back of the neck and pulling him down for a kiss that was desperate and hungry and very much reciprocated.

Soon the bruising pressure of hard lips and the sharp nips of teeth turned into something slower and softer and gentle and before long the two men were lying side by side, just holding each other, ignoring the fact that they were covered in come and lube and cake.

Nothing was said by either man, because nothing needed to be said.  Instead they lay there, in each others embrace, and let the high of their activities fade away, enjoying the moment before they had to leave the bed to clean up or fall asleep together.  Either way was fine with John because he was happy.  Happier than he had ever been.  Happier then he ever thought he had the right to be.  He had a home and friends and a job.  In his arms he had a man who loved him and whom he loved in return and just the floor above he had a daughter who meant the world to him.

He knew he was no longer alone and that thought on its own was enough to keep him happy forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, Thank You, Thank You, THANK YOU for being such wonderful readers and followers and supporters! You are all fantastic :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Cover Art] for "Limits" by WhatLocked](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7630471) by [Hamstermoon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hamstermoon/pseuds/Hamstermoon)




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